Caligula in Red
by Imogen Kain
Summary: The sequel to You Can't Spell Slaughter Without Laughter. Definitely read it before starting this one. After the events of the Dark Knight, Jess leaves Gotham. But little can prevent her from returning to a life of crime. And nothing can prevent the clown from returning to her. Joker x OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys! **

**This is the sequel to my first Joker/OC story, ****You Can't Spell Slaughter Without Laughter****. If you haven't read that, definitely don't expect to understand any of this. If you have read it, yay! Welcome back. I missed you.**

**Wow it's been a really long time. Sorry to keep you waiting. I'd like to say that I have more than just this first chapter written, but that would be a lie. I just had to get it up, now that my creative juices seem to finally be flowing again. Reviews would probably help speed it along… : )**

**I'm not going to lie: This is gonna be darker that YCS. A lot darker. It's rated M for language, drug use, sexual situations, adulty-type angsty things, and hopefully quite a bit of blood.**

**If you need a YCS refresher, just remember that Jess has been transported back to our universe after being utterly altered by her time with the Joker. She's deeply obsessed, deeply in love, and also happens to believe her clown is dead. The only others of the Twenty to escape Gotham with her were Jackson, Billy, Keith and Seth. The rest are still in Gotham. And that's pretty much it.**

**Thanks for reading! Enjoy ****Caligula in Red****.**

* * *

The dress was still there, hanging in the closet. Deep red cloth clung feebly to the wire hanger on the bare wooden rack, stained with red even deeper. It looked sad. Tired. Holes gaped at the shoulder, where she'd never bothered to fix it, and at the hemline, where she'd never had the chance to. The long sleeves were stained with grime, pocked by gravel. It smelled faintly of gasoline and strongly of smoke. And it was still there.

It hadn't moved - hadn't disappeared or altered in any way. She'd expected it to. Really, she had. But there it hung at the back of the tiny closet, marred by its experiences, by the knives and the guns and the blood. Absolute.

If it had been gone, Jess would have known it was a dream. It might have been a relief, she thought, to understand finally that none of it was real. She might have embraced insanity. It seemed easier. But there it was, a tangible reminder, whispering _I'm here. I'm just as real as you_. It was a product of that place—it had been created there, its elements were the elements of another universe. Yet it was here in this one.

There were no universal paradoxes created by their re-entry into their home-world, or by the dress's presence. At least not from what Jess had seen. The past two nights spent in a little motel in Chicago had been strikingly average. The plane beyond Gotham was ticking on, unaltered by the disappearance of twenty of its citizens or the return of five of them, a slightly depressing verity.

Their brief stay in that other universe had beget a snowball of change. They had been agents of transformation. They had been transformed. Yet here, it seemed, their impact was miniscule.  
Just another in the long chain of reasons that Jess hated to be back.

She hadn't left her hotel room that first day. Bruised bones and aching depression were enough to keep her bedridden, with Keith and Jackson checking in briefly at different points. When, on the second day, her shoulder seemed more swollen than it had previously, and her hip was so stiff she could no longer bend her knee, Keith had insisted she visit the hospital.

Dressed in cheap sweat pants and a t-shirt of Billy's, armed with a wad of bills—was it legal to use currency from another world?—she'd gone to the ER. The nurse's green eyes had gone huge after examining her body.

"You've been walking around like this for a couple of _days_?"

Now she was patched up, but still feeling terrible. The bruise on her cheekbone had gone a mottled yellow, her ankle was in a splint, and her entire right shoulder was black and blue from the dislocation (and subsequent painful resetting). Not to mention the horrible scar left by the messy stitches which were slowly falling out of her other shoulder. She ached all the time, and she couldn't shake a sensation of deep exhaustion, no matter how much she slept. She was self-medicating too, probably far too often—her favorite was a wonderful cocktail of pot, red wine, and Vicodin, which couldn't have been helping her energy levels.

But it was so much better, so much easier, to drown in the oblivion medication offered. She'd avoided opening the little hotel closet to see her costume for a full seventy- two hours, wanting it to become some kind of shared hallucination between her and the four men.

But the dress was still there. Which meant Gotham had been there, too. Now that fact was inescapable. And Jess just kept asking herself the same question, over and over and over.

_So… now what?_

She was lost here. What the fuck would she possibly do? Though she couldn't have been in Gotham even half a year—Jess hadn't paid an ounce of attention to the days, but she felt like around three or four months must have passed—this place felt so foreign, so _off_. She'd abandoned all the drive she had here, all her plans for the future. The Joker had been her future. She'd planned to live fast and die young, and that would've been perfectly fine at his side. But her plan had fallen out from under her, as perhaps she should have expected it to. She was back in an unwanted world that didn't want her, either.

Jess stayed in Chicago for five days after the hospital, most of which she spent alone wallowing in the slow haze of pot and alcohol, topped with the newfound wonder of codeine, which Seth had mysteriously found and gifted to her. She discovered that she had, by some strange warp of time, been absent from her world for _seven months_. She _knew_ it hadn't been that long in Gotham—at least, Jesus, she hoped not—but she wasn't letting herself think much about it. And she avoided going outside to experience the hostile February weather.

Sometimes, in sudden manic bursts, Jess started trying to convince herself that everything was fine. Telling herself she was _home, _by God, something she'd wanted so badly at first. There was no _danger_ here, no blood, no bullets or men who wanted her dead. She was _safe_ here!

That should have been so wonderful. Not long ago, it would have been the greatest thing she could imagine.

Problem was, Jess no longer valued _safety_ the way she once had. _Safe_ meant a quiet life. A normal life.

Good Christ.

That was nothing. Nothing she wanted, anyway.

The idea of her world progressing in the way she'd planned before Gotham – attend college, then a master's program in psychology (ironic), get married, have kids, live in a house on a block in a suburb… It was laughable now. She couldn't do it if she tried. Such a life, even a perfect model of it, would always be tainted by the lingering memory of gunshots, booming explosions, and fiery brown eyes.

But she couldn't think of those eyes. Block out that thought. Because thoughts of his eyes led to thoughts of his mouth, his smile, his hands, his smell, and she couldn't deal with that yet. Or ever.

She wished she didn't know she'd never see him again - hope would have been enough to get by. But there was none. She knew the fact of his death with painful certainty. He was dead, and anyway he was gone. A universe away, at least.

He'd ruined this world for her. He'd ruined other men, too. Nothing and no one would ever be enough again. He'd blown everything she'd ever known out of the water. And now he was gone.

She got angry about it, more and more frequently as the days passed. It felt better than that aching sadness. She could hold onto fury and resentment. Often, it was directed at the Joker himself—he'd asked for it, he'd _left_ her—but Jess was also furious with the cruelty of the world, with fate if such a thing existed. And, of course, with the Batman.

The worst thing was, she'd never have a chance at any kind of revenge, or to even make her fury known. Neither the bat nor the clown _existed_ anymore – they could never hear her screams or feel her pain. Her anger was useless and empty, a discarded beer bottle in the gutter. She'd never felt frustration this overwhelming. She'd never felt so totally impotent.

So keep drinking, Jessica. Keep smoking and popping pills and keep sleeping. Because nothing else was ever going to help that.

* * *

Jess woke abruptly from a nightmare with her head and shoulders hanging off the bed, sheets twisted ruthlessly around her lower half. Discombobulated, she jerked, upsetting her precarious balance and bumping to the floor. A mostly empty wine bottle next to her tipped and dripped its dark red contents over the comforter, but she really could not have given less of a shit. She laid for a moment on the ground, hand to her forehead, and tried to stop the spins. She was still quite drunk.

Another knock at the door reminded her why she'd woken in such a hurry. Sluggishly rising, too tired to feel anything other than confused and loopy, Jess crossed to the door and opened it. That just seemed like the thing to do.

She was greeted with the sight of an irritable Jackson—one of the Twenty who'd come back from Gotham with her—who's instantly raised eyebrows told her she was not dressed appropriately. She looked down at herself. Apparently she'd fallen asleep in cotton underwear and a black men's blazer (having somehow gotten mixed up in her laundry at the theater), which hid her otherwise naked chest, but perhaps not as modestly as it should have. She tugged the jacket tightly around herself and squinted at Jackson.

"Good morning," he said, tone dripping in irony.

"What time is it?" How difficult it was to talk… Her throat felt acidic.

"Five – pm." Jackson started pushing past her to enter the room, only thinking to say "Can I come in?" once he'd crossed the threshold. Jess shrugged, but he hadn't been waiting for an answer anyway. In his characteristically systematic way, he made a slow, appraising sweep of the room – the disheveled bed, the jar of weed on the chaotic little table, the bottles of pills and alcohol lining the TV cabinet (perhaps the only neat display in the room), the open closet with her filthy red dress within. Clothes piled in the corner, where she'd thrown them after undressing night after night, and fast food and candy wrappers lay balled on the floor around the garbage bin. Jess hadn't allowed the housekeepers to clean since she'd checked in a week ago – the thought of a stranger from this world invading her space made her vaguely angry. She found it hard to be embarrassed about the state of her hotel room. She found it hard to be embarrassed about much anymore – whose business was it if she didn't give a shit?

"So…" Jackson paused, sighed, and took a seat on the edge of her bed. "We have to talk about where you're going." Jess pushed a hand through her hair and groaned.

"Not now, Jackson," she said. "I'm not in the mood."

"You're never in the mood," he replied, a little hardness in his eyes. "I get how tough this has been. It's been tough on all of us. But we can't just stay here. Keith has a _kid_, Jess – he needs to get back to him."

As it turned out, Jackson had caught her at an opportune time for him. She was too tired and too inebriated to articulate an argument against something she thought probably had a lot of rational merit. She shrugged, wanting to go back to sleep.

"So where are you going?" she asked.

"See, that's what we're trying to figure out. Seth wants to go home – some place in Louisiana – but Billy said the idea of going back to Maine made him want to kill himself. And the thing is, I own this shitty little house in Seattle. So, while you guys are trying to find your own places, you could stay with me. If that sounds good."

Jess hadn't even thought about where she'd be living now that she was back. She couldn't return to her hometown, to her parents and the old high school crowd she'd already outgrown when she'd left for Gotham. And she'd always wanted to live in an apartment in the big city, on her own…

Truthfully, the idea was a little exciting. And money wouldn't be a problem for a very long time…

"Would that really be okay?"

"Sure, Jess," Jackson said with a shrug as he pushed aside the curtain and glanced out the window. "Get packed." He started for the door, patting her on the shoulder as he passed by. "Seth should have cars for us by tomorrow – day after at the latest. I'll be down the hall." The door closed behind him. Jess, a little befuddled by the short conversation, sank back into bed.

* * *

As soon as city lights appeared at the end of the bridge, fat drops of rain began to hit the windshield. Jackson snorted and flicked on the wipers, muttering "Classic Seattle" to Billy, who sat in the front seat with him. Both of them were under the impression that Jess, curled up under coats and blankets in the back, was asleep. In actuality, she'd been staring up at the darkness outside the window for the past two hours after having slipped some codeine, not wanting to talk.

"Hey Jess," Billy called in a flippantly soft voice, not enough to wake her, "get your shoes on, buddy, we're home." Jackson chuckled. There was a moment of silence.

"You think we need to be worried about her?" Jackson asked. Billy shifted in his seat, and Jess watched his reflection in the front window as he turned to peer out of it. He took a moment to answer.

"Yeah," he said finally. "But… I'm my number one priority."

"Me too," Jackson agreed. "I guess some things never change." Billy nodded. Neither man spoke again until they reached the house.

Jackson scooted them in and out of sparse traffic, the rain streaked lights a blur against the grey and green of Seattle at midnight. Jess caught sight of the illuminated Space Needle across the water, and a vague memory popped into her mind of a family trip there when she was eight—laughter, the smell of caramel corn and car exhaust, a street performer with long-nosed marionettes. She'd been thinking lately how she'd probably never see her family again, and what bothered her about it was the fact that she couldn't seem to care. Everything was so surreal, somehow—distant reflections, like the distorted lights of the Needle on the black lake. She only really felt when she felt something about the Joker.

Jackson's house was a weathered two-story affair with three tiny bedrooms deep in the heart of a district called Lake City.

"We call it Lake Shitty for a reason," Jackson had said. It felt damp inside, as though the walls were saturated in rainwater. Her room, which Jackson showed her as she swayed and rubbed her sandy eyes, was in the corner of the house on the second floor. It had one tiny window above a double mattress bed, the metal frame of which rattled and squeaked with the slightest movement. Jackson had provided a musty woolen blanket he'd drug from his linen closet. The whole house smelled old, like a tomb. Seven months. Seven months gone.

Despite the damp and the smell, Jess fell asleep as soon as her head hit the lumpy, case-less pillow.

* * *

The courtyard is wet and gray today, clouds hanging low over the vast concrete barrier, stretching to the sky. Jess's heels sink into muddy grass as she picks her way carefully towards the firing wall, eyes fixed on the black stains spattering it. It had been clean the first time she'd come here, but she's done more than enough to change that.

There is one other person here, groping desperately at the faultless concrete for an exit – an exit Jess is acutely aware does not exist. She grips the handle of the gun in her holster and watches him, watches him slip and slide in the mud as he systematically searches every inch of that impenetrable wall. Frantic for escape. Perhaps he hasn't caught something; perhaps there is a hidden switch he missed.

He won't find an exit. He never finds an exit.

If Jess knows anything in this place, she knows that there is no escape until one of them is dead. That knowledge is absolute, an ingrained fact, and as the one with the gun, Jess is responsible for the perpetuation of this little drama. It is her duty. The guilt associated with that is dull, a steady yet despondent drawl. There is no way out of this otherwise—she has to do it—but that doesn't make it easy to swallow.

Alex lets out a little moan as he slips again in the mud, his leather jacket completely drenched in brown grime. He isn't always this pathetic in their recreations of her first murder – sometimes he scares her, sometimes he has weapons of his own. But this time he invokes such pity in her, an emotion she tries utterly to suppress. He looks so human, so scared…

Finally, he notices her, and he turns in her direction desperately.

"Hey," he says, his voice shaking. "Hey do you know the way out of here?" Jess nods, her fingers curling around the gun handle, her pointer testing the trigger. It is so easy to raise the weapon, to aim with absolute assurance at his forehead, to watch his face contort into sadness and horror.  
"Hey," he says again, desperately throwing up a hand to shield his face from the barrel. It doesn't matter. The bullet rips through fingers and forehead in half a second, sending a spray of blood at her face, sending gray brain matter against the brick wall. Jess's tongue darts out to dab at a scarlet droplet on her lips.

She wakes up with the taste of blood in her mouth.

* * *

After three successive tooth-brushing sessions, all the time avoiding eye contact with the mirror, Jess had forced the dream from her mind. It wasn't hard to interpret it, anyway. That dull pit of guilt in her chest seemed bottomless, but the only thing she could do was ignore it. There was no taking back her actions, after all. What was done, was done.

Jess had hoped that, perhaps, the dreams would stop when she came to Seattle. She didn't know why she'd thought that – a change of scenery was supposed to be refreshing, right? But she'd been in his gray-green city for two weeks now, and was still nightmare plagued almost every night. Not all of them were set at the firing wall, but enough of them involved her stabbing or shooting or strangling someone to invoke frustration.

_I get it, subconscious. I killed someone. _

The stab of pain at those words, which she'd thought would grow duller, still wasn't going away.

_He wasn't real, anyway. Not really._

Jess padded downstairs after smoking some weed in her room, leaving her thoughts unfocused and her mood tranquil. She greatly preferred it like that. This had become her ritual over the past thirteen days; she hadn't really been sober since arriving at the house in Lake City. This place had become quite comfortable—small and damp, but comfortable. It was a haven, one she rarely left, save to run out for food and liquor, having just gotten a fake ID (a remarkably easy feat if one has the right connections).

Billy, sitting at the small round kitchen table, looked up from the pile of bills he was counting. He had a large Tupperware container open at his left elbow, too, spilling pills and piles of coke. Apparently Jackson had already had a number of "clients" in Seattle when he'd left, who bought his seemingly endless supply of pills and powders and plants and guns. According to him, he was "just a little outlet for the big guys," who he visited weekly to pick up stock. He never allowed Billy or Jess to accompany him.

Now that a number of Jackson's old regulars had caught on to his reappearance, people were dropping by the house pretty regularly, all of them dopey eyed and relieved by his return. Some were their own stereotypes—true crack-heads and upper-addicts, with missing teeth and needle wounds (Jackson didn't sell heroin however—didn't believe in it, or PCP or meth). But, from what Jess had seen, most seemed like pretty regular people.

There was a group of four frat boys, for instance, who dropped by weekly for weed and Adderall. A gorgeous blue-eyed businessman came over nearly every other day to pick up his eight-balls of coke. Two hipster-type college kids kept popping in for their newfound favorite—the white pill from Gotham, of which there was a decidedly limited supply—what they called "Molly to the max." (Jackson, not wanting to explain the drug's origin, had told them it was a rare form of MDMA. He called the pills White Poppers). A heavy set biologist and father of four had come in just the other day to buy three guns. While waiting for Jackson to retrieve them, he sat on the couch with Jess and held what turned out to be quite an interesting conversation about seahorses.

All walks of life wander through the drug dealer's abode. Jackson liked calling it his "public service." Billy liked calling Jackson a "piece of shit dealer" but it was said with a smile, as he happily counted bills and wrote down the numbers. Jess didn't take much part in the dealing, except for the fact that she was always around to do the drugs with whoever decided to sink into that worn old couch in the living room. She did, however, clean and cook, which all of them liked to call her "woman duties."

Some kind of balance was being restored, in this hazy humble house, the likes of which she hadn't known since leaving the theater. She found herself, if not content, at least satisfied with the pot and the wine and the cigarettes and the interesting people trickling in. As long as she staved off thoughts of the Joker and her dreams. But, of course, she still cried at night.

No clients were here at the moment, so she sank into the kitchen chair across from Billy, careless of her ragged sweats and ripped t-shirt. He glanced up at her with a little smile. The strain in his eyes was still evident, but the tension between them had subdued with her weed-suppressed mood. He didn't adore her as he once had, but at least he no longer hated her.

"When's our first customer?" she asked him, running a hand through her disheveled hair and yawning. He shrugged, setting aside a stack of money and jotting down the four digit number. He then began loading everything into a small duffel bag at his feet, which would be placed in a safe in Jackson's bedroom. The door to this room was then locked. The key Jackson wore around his neck, like he was Xaro Xhoan Daxos or something. No one was fucking around here. Serious work, serious crime. It felt normal. It felt better.

"Not before noon, I assume," Billy said. "I think Hipster One and Hipster Two wanted to come get a sack."

"Weed?" Jess said. "I thought they liked the uppers."

"Jack's already cut them off from the Poppers," he replied. "They're trying real hard to blow through our supply. He thinks they're, like, hoarding them. I mean, who rages every night?"

"It's hell dealing drugs, isn't it?" Jess asked with a smile, leaning on the table only to let out a yelp of pain as her shoulder twisted in a weird way. Billy, concernedly chewing the corner of his cheek, eyed her as her stood to put the drugs and cash away.

"How's your… body?"

"Slammin'," Jess replied ironically. "Absolutely rockin'. I mean, shit, have you _seen_ these curves?" She arched her back to show off her breasts, at which Billy scoffed and looked away.

"You know what I mean."

"I know. I'm fine. A twinge here, an ache there. Better by the day."

"Good-"

"Hey, fuckers!" This was how Jackson liked to greet them now. Away from Gotham, back in his element, Jess was privy to parts of his personality she hadn't known before. It was probably sheer relief to be home. He wasn't always so tense anymore, not so serious or quiet. He didn't always wear black pants and a leather jacket. Today he was simply dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, out of which he withdrew two large Ziploc bags—one filled with green, one with white.

"All stocked up for the night," Jackson said, also pulling a bottle of rum from the paper bag at his elbow. Jess furrowed her eyebrows.

"Are you planning a rager?" she asked. He grinned, a little sheepish.

"Not exactly," he said. He came forward and placed the drugs and alcohol next to Jess, then reached back into the paper bag he still held. From it, he withdrew a black and blue DVD case. He placed it flat on the table.

"I think it's time. I think we need this."

Jess felt a horrible shudder rush though her as she stared at the title of the movie, at the explosive cover art – the bike, the fire, the figure in black…

"_The Dark Knight_," Billy said. In the ensuing silence, Jess felt bizarrely as though she was going to vomit and laugh hysterically at the same time. Just looking at the cover filled her with terrible anxiety, but also gnawing curiosity. She sat back in her chair, ghostly white.

"I forgot that existed," was all she came up with in response. She had. Jesus. Of course it existed.

She felt cold around the neck and shoulders, almost nauseous, and a weird pressure was building between her temples. Her world felt once more as though it had been flipped on its head—in her gut was a writhing mass of confusion, heartache, fear and horror. What was on that disc? Would it show her things she shouldn't see? Would it steady her hold on this reality or simply drive her insane? How would she feel, watching a world that seemed more visceral than this one, reduced to little more than a picture on a screen?

"I wonder if we're in it," Billy said, his voice flat. They all stared at the case in silence for a long moment.

Quite abruptly, the doorbell rang. The three of them jumped, the spell broke, and Jackson headed to peer out the peephole. After a moment, he unlatched the chain, unbolted the deadlock, and opened the door to Brian, the aforementioned gorgeous blue eyed businessman. He looked shoddier than Jess had ever seen him—black hair (grey at the temples) disheveled, pale faced, his tie undone and his white shirt unbuttoned to the chest. Okay, it was a sexy shoddy.

"Hey man, did you get my text?" he asked Jackson, who felt for his phone in his pocket, retrieved it and looked at the screen.

"Just did," Jackson said, smiling and opening the door wider. Brian stepped inside, wringing his hands.

"Sorry for coming by so suddenly," he said. "And so early. Just got fired. Real kick in the nuts, with this divorce shit…"

Jess, her adrenaline high, jumped up and ran to her room, coming back with a pipe and a bag of weed. Amidst Jackson's assurance that it was fine, and his condolences about the job, Brian allowed Jess to steer him to the couch and place the pipe in his hand. It helped her get through the rough spots, why not him? If she could make this beautiful man's day a little better, maybe she'd forget how her own life suddenly seemed like it was in a tail spin again. The appearance of one little movie did that.

Brian smoked, eying her appreciatively for what was probably the first time. He usually didn't pay much attention to her—he was one of those who just popped in and out quickly.

"Thanks," he said. "Sorry, what was your name?"

"That's Jess," Jackson announced, striding back in with his scale and his stash of coke. He knelt at the coffee table and said, "How much?"

"Eight-ball," Brian replied. "Soon I can buy bigger amounts – once the ex-wife stops watching my accounts like a hawk. And maybe throw in an eighth of the green, this shit is nice." This last was exhaled in a trail of smoke, in a high-pitched squeak more at place in stoner comedies. He passed the pipe to Jess, his eyes twinkling as she giggled. The look Jackson threw her was a little hard.

"Jess," said Brian. "Pretty name. How do you know Jackson? I never saw you around before he went MIA. Were _you_ the cause of that?" His tweaked black eyebrow was more than charming. Jess sat beside him.

"We met on our travels," she said with an air of mystery. "But I definitely wasn't the cause of them."

"That is for fucking sure," said Billy, striding over and reaching down for the pipe.

"Where'd you travel to?" Brian asked.

The three members of the Lucky Twenty glanced at each other, and then Jess said, "New York. Well, Billy was already living there. I moved over for a job and Jackson has a friend there. A mutual friend, actually. He introduced us." How easy it was for the lies to slither from her lips, with not even an ounce of anxiety or regret. Jess's attitude towards people in general had been, obviously, quite altered by her time with the Joker. She found she still felt the way she had in Gotham, even though they were back in her first "reality." People were sheep, blind and unthinking, the nameless masses, the walking dead. They believed what you told them. False people, really—illusions, background noise. If everything was subjective, then the people in this universe were exactly as real as those in Gotham. And that wasn't very real at all, was it?

So what did she owe any of them? The truest man she'd ever known had been killed in another universe. What did that say about the citizens of this one? Hardly _people_. She could lie to them without guilt. She could take from them and hate them and even play with them, if she wanted to. Because there were only two things that Jess knew without a doubt were _really real_: Herself and the Joker. And since one of them was gone, she was left alone. And she was at liberty to do whatever it took, for herself.

Yeah. She had to remind herself of that whenever she remembered killing Alex.

The conversation had moved on by the time Jess resurfaced from her thoughts, but no one was looking at her oddly. She hadn't blanked out for too long, then. Brian, now red eyed and squinty, was asking Jackson what he had planned for tonight, as he knelt down at the coffee table to take a big snort of white powder. Jess noticed Jackson had made lines for all them. How nice.

"Watching a movie," Jackson said as Brian handed Jess the rolled up hundred dollar bill (he was classy like that) and she took her place in front of her coke. The tiny white granules burned their way up her nose in two long sniffs, and a yellow tint seemed to envelope the world.

"Which?" asked Brian. Jess sat back next to him, feeling rather sexy as their knees brushed and rested together solidly. It was nice to feel suddenly so confident, so alert and interesting.

None of them seemed to want to say it. Finally, Jackson muttered, "_Dark Knight_."

Brian's response was instant and enthusiastic. "Oh shit! Fan-fucking-tastic. Best movie of the year, right? Have any of you seen it?"

"No, none of us," Jess replied. "Is it really that good?"

"You'll love it," Brian said, placing a hand on her knee and squeezing. "Fantastic production value, fantastic acting. The Joker is, like, wow."

"Yeah, we've heard," Billy replied dryly, glancing at Jess. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. And Brian's hand stayed on her knee. Maybe the coke was a bad idea. This was turning into a sensory overload.

"Well shit, pop it in," Brian said. "I need to get fucked up today and watch a good movie." He didn't seem to catch Jackson and Billy's skeptical, irritated looks. They clearly wanted roommate-time. Jess, however, was juggling multiple feelings-anxiety, irritation with Brian's forwardness, comfort by his hand on her knee-but mostly she just wanted to jump in and get this started. No thinking. Thinking was no good.

"Let's just do it, you guys," she said, looking at Billy and Jackson. "Now or I'll lose my nerve." Jackson headed to the table to get the movie (and the drugs and the alcohol, which were immediately passed around).

"Oh, you get scared easily or something?" Brian asked her gently, leaning back and slinging an arm around her shoulder. Jess leaned into him, her heart pounding as Jackson began to queue up the Blu-Ray. She didn't even know how to fucking answer that one. Her lies and sarcasms were gone. She couldn't quit staring at the screen as everything else seemed to fade into background static. Jackson came to her rescue, snorting with derisive laughter.

"We just _really _care about Batman," he said. Billy and Jess burst into laughter at this. Brian shrugged uncomprehendingly beside her as Jackson scooted back, sat down, and poured himself a drink.

Then, hands shaking so hard he almost dropped the remote, he pressed "Play."

* * *

It was remarkable how the smells lingered, in a place with walls so white. They permeated your nose, festered there, eeked their way into your head and ripped apart your neurons. Smells like this wouldn't fade, not even with their fancy power washes or scrubbing until the plaster flaked off in grainy chunks and their fingers bled. They wouldn't be covered by cheap air fresheners, or perfume, or patchouli incense and matches. They stuck. The way blood dries against brick. Because the fact was, no matter what they _wanted_, no matter how hard they resisted the truth, this place was horribly, gloriously stained.

The Joker saw this. He'd seen this as soon as he'd stepped into the building, with its grand old hall and sterile wings. He'd _smelled _it—the blood, shit and tears of a thousand fruitless lives, holed up in straitjackets and padded cells. The excrement of the ages. Society's detritus. Here they were clustered like swine, watched like amoeba. And Gotham bred them, the dregs of the dregs.

Madness was an epidemic in this city - and there was only so much room in Arkham Asylum.

That was why men like him so often went free.

But not always. Not when you had a psychopathic bat after you. The Joker's scarred mouth curled into a sneer as he looked down at the heavy shackles around his wrists, waist and ankles. This was a bit of an overkill, if you thought about it. Like he would choose now to run, exactly when they expected it. Who ran when they were already being transported?

The man to his left was named Winslow. The man to his right was Rory. The Joker had noted their names carefully. They were both orderlies. Winslow was small and spry, the kind of little that was obnoxious in men, like he could launch onto your back and pull your hair. He was having problems with his wife, evidenced by the pale ring of flesh around the third finger of his left hand which, just two days ago, had been covered in gold. He'd started smoking, too. That was something else the Joker could smell.

Rory was going to be a tougher nut to crack. No wife, no kids, a quality that remained easily impersonal, and a smile that wouldn't quit. Yesterday, some patient in the rec room had seizured, convulsed and fallen into a pool of her own bile. Rory had helped her to the infirmary, smiling all the time, while yellow stains dirtied his smock and her fingers left red marks on his arm. Chained to his hospital bed, the Joker had watched him with interest, laughing and flirting with Caroline-the-Replacement-Nurse. Rory was one of those _nice guys_. The Joker thought he could probably help cure him of that.

Gotham's Clown Prince of Crime had been brought in from his final fight against the Batman with a broken ankle – go figure – a few cracked ribs, a fractured hip, a dog bite on his arm and too many bruises to count. That first night, he'd lain there humming, poking his yellow and purple stomach until grey dawn crept through the windows. Then he'd pretended to be asleep, until his original nurse, Emily, came in to check, bravely approaching the bed and leaning right over him. You should have seen the look on her stupid little face when his eyes popped open and he shouted "Boo!"

He'd had a scalpel. It hadn't been hard to procure, in all the hustle and bustle around his arrival. An unnecessary amount of excitement, actually. You'd think professionals would act like it.

When he'd finished, her face was still stupid, but you almost couldn't tell through all that blood.

The Joker chuckled at the memory, wiping tears from his eyes and not missing the wary look Winslow threw him. Now that everyone thought he was crazy, they paid close attention to everything he did. Funny, how he could run around blowing up buildings and killing people, without anyone but the Bat taking him seriously. But as soon as they got him in custody, a mere chuckle made their hackles rise. God might be dead, but irony was still alive and kicking and tearing down hospitals.

"I was just thinking about Emily," the Joker explained to the orderly, who looked quickly away.

"Don't talk to me," Winslow said, the gruff tone out of place in such a little body. Shouldn't a guy his size be, like, squeaking or something?

"How's she doing?" the Joker asked, ignoring the command. He wasn't answered, so he went on. "I don't see why everyone's so upset, boys. In _my_ opinion, her little face lift was an _improvement_."

Rory took that moment to quit smiling. His hand flew into the Joker's bruised back with a rough push that sent the clown sprawling to the dirty linoleum. It hurt. The chains twisted around his ankles and wrists, making it difficult to brace himself, so he landed hard on his shoulder. After catching his breath, he turned around slowly and sat in the hallway to stare up at the two orderlies. A long moment passed before he pointed at Rory, feeling bubbly and triumphant.

"Hit a nerve, did I?" he asked, beginning to laugh.

He thought of all the nerves he'd hit in Emily's face and laughed harder. Winslow was looking uneasy, and Rory the smiler looked _mad_, which really only added to the hilarity. By the time the orderlies agreed to call for reinforcements, he was rolling on the hallway floor, clutching his sides.

Two other men, big burly assholes the Joker hadn't yet had the pleasure of meeting, came blundering down the hall after only a few minutes. Rory and Winslow helped them grimly hoist the clown up by the arms and legs, and carry him forcibly in their previous direction of travel. The Joker didn't kick them or anything – though the idea certainly crossed his mind – but he was writhing in his hilarity, unable and unwilling to stop. To laugh, especially when no one else saw the humor, was so freeing. The sense of exhilaration was familiar-he felt it every time he hung out of a car window, or ran from a job.

A vivid image popped into his overactive head, of the day he'd run from Commissioner Loeb's funeral, with Jesster's heel's clacking behind him and her exhilarated laugh ringing down the alley. That was his favorite thing about the Jesster. She laughed when he did, breathless and high on adrenaline (or whatever), during chases, escapes, jobs, sex. She was laughing or growling all the time. All for him. All because she _liked_ him, she wanted him to _like_ her. No one laughed here. No Jesster to make or break the tension. He almost kind of missed it.

By the time they'd reached the end of the hall and stopped at a black metal door, the Joker had gone quiet. He knitted his fingers and rested his hands on his stomach, enjoying the free ride, even if tiny little Winslow was gripping his calf hard enough to leave another bruise. Orderlies around here didn't seem to mind bruising the patients.

The Joker had watched a schizo get forcibly drug from a bed in the hospital ward a couple of nights ago, when he'd refused to follow them back to his cell. "My ankle still hurts, my ankle still hurts..." He'd screamed it over and over, eyes wide and rolling, clutching the thin papery mattress as they took him by the legs and pulled. His head had hit the ground with a sickening thump, and he started yelling louder, so they pushed some kind of syringe into his upper thigh. The schizo shut up pretty quick after that.

"Where are we going, boys?" the Joker said mildly, feeling a distinct sense of moral superiority over these men. He hadn't thought to ask before.

"Therapy," grunted the huge guy who had him by the left armpit. The Joker nodded appreciatively. He hadn't met his doctor yet. This should be fun. It was, however, a pity that old Scarecrow had lost his license.

The plaque on the door said "Ruth Adams, MD." A psychiatrist, then. They were going to try to pump him full of meds, until his brain either fried or got in line. Fat chance of either. The Joker had been on meds before. At least, he was pretty sure he had. Maybe when he was a kid or something. They didn't work on a mind like his.

Ruth Adams turned out to be a tall, wiry woman of around forty, with flat red hair and teeth stained by nicotine. Upon opening the door to her office, she quietly regarded the Joker with an even expression. He felt like a pharaoh or something, lifted on the shoulders of four men, looking down at her in her white smock and frumpy glasses.

She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket as she examined him clinically and lit one with a deep drag. Her head silently disappeared in a cloud of smoke. When it cleared, she was still staring. There was no fear in those eyes – something he'd gotten rather used to, and rather enjoyed – but maybe she was just good at hiding it. You probably had to be in this profession. Crazies could _smell_ fear.

As it was, it looked like she was deciding whether or not he was worth her time. The Joker had the sudden urge to pop out her eyeballs with his thumbs.

"Want one?" she asked in a husky voice, offering the Joker her carton of smokes. Like it was a truce. Like it bonded them. The Joker got the message: she was supposed to be the _cool_ doctor, the one who let you get away with shit. Tonguing his scars and deciding to play along, he pulled one from the pack and placed it between his lips. Make her think he trusted her… that could be worthwhile. At the least, it gave his hands something to do.

When Ruth Adams lit it for him, he eyed the lighter, then the glowing tip of the tobacco. Jam that into someone's nostril, it'd at least be a distraction...

"Try any funny stuff," the psychiatrist said mildly, as though she'd read his expression, "and you'll lose a couple privileges."

"Like, uh… _what_?"

"Like bathroom passes and pillows and reading material. Mind your manners, we'll see if we can't give you more. Sound good?"

The Joker considered for a long moment. He took a drag, expelled the foul smoke and smacked his lips.

"Sure, doc," he replied, matching her even tone. "I'll be a regular _angel_."

"Put him down, for Christ's sake," Dr. Adams told the orderlies, with a look of disgust. "I want you to let him walk here from now on. What did you do to garner such special treatment?" She met his eye, and the Joker grinned widely, ready to explain.

But Winslow beat him to the punch, telling the story like a five year old tattling on his classmate. The Joker sneered, but didn't interrupt, instead aiming a sharp kick at his chin when Winslow stopped talking. The orderly caught it before it connected, unfortunately, but the Joker had been watching his doctor. Her sneer at Winslow was, if possible, more derisive than the Joker's, like her disgust ran much deeper. And she allowed herself a little smirk at the clown's kick. The four men set him gently on his feet.

"Stop overreacting," the psychiatrist berated the orderlies. "Jesus Christ. I know he's famous, but keep your heads cool. Laughing isn't a crime. Even in Arkham."

The Joker met her eye again and smiled. He decided he liked Ruth Adams.

* * *

**I hope you like it so far. I need ideas on what you'd like to see. Review please!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2. Enjoy!**

* * *

The movie started out fine. With the four of them huddled on the couch, drinks and smokes in hand, Billy almost felt comfortable, as though he was about to enjoy _Finding Nemo_ or something. There was a curious calm inside him, and he was far from sure it wasn't simple denial, whispering that everything would be okay. _This won't be too hard_, he thought, bumping elbows with Jess and turning to her with raised eyebrows and an excited expression. _If anything, we'll get some answers_.

The girl next to him, however, looked far from enthusiastic. She met his eye with a wary glance, frowning like he was an idiot when she noticed his eagerness. Well, fuck her. She was a high strung bitch when it came to this, anyway.

Billy sipped his whiskey on the rocks and settled back as Jackson pressed play, still feeling alright, even when the Joker's laugh came booming out of the speakers as the DVD menu faded to black. Jess jumped at the noise, looking simultaneously anguished and deeply focused, but the way she clung to Business Perv made Billy think bitterly that she was just _fine_.

Jackson was taking deep breaths by the time the camera panned over the all-too familiar skyline of Gotham City, New York, seeming white and shaky for a guy who spent his life looking down gun barrels. At that point Billy had searched himself for _some_ kind of emotion. His partners in crime were already rattled. All he felt was annoyed that Business Perv had invited himself to stay. Maybe he wasn't taking this seriously enough, but it was kind of hard to with three hits of cocaine racing through your blood stream.

The first scene in the movie was the bank heist that had occurred before any of them had stepped foot in that world. By the time a masked robber was disabling the emergency line, Jess was on her third shot, and Jackson had a full fifth clutched in his hand. Only Billy and Business Perv weren't compelled to drink.

As the movie continued, Billy found himself more and more engrossed in the action and, frankly, the phenomenal camera work. He watched unblinkingly as a dozen or more men wearing clown masks were killed, their bodies littering Gotham National. It was hard to connect that he'd recently left a place where those men had been real. They'd had wives and kids – or so he assumed.

It made his head hurt to consider, so he spent a lot of time keeping his mind off of it.

Maybe he _could_ use a shot.

It made his chest burn in a delicious way.

Only one masked man remained alive by the time the gangster bank manager decided to act. Billy was beginning to suspect who he was just by watching the way he moved, and it seemed that Jess and Jackson were coming to the same conclusion. Jess had moved to the edge of the couch, eyes wide and unblinking, steadily chugging rum. When the clown was finally unmasked to reveal that familiar visage in white, red and black, she sat back abruptly, completely tense and utterly silent.

To Billy, the boss's face on-screen was a wake up call. Maybe it was the booze, or the angle of the camera, but a wave of dizziness overcame him as he stared into those black rimmed eyes. The finality of their time in Gotham, the understanding of their return to this world, crashed down on him in less time than it took the Joker to say "Whatever doesn't kill you simply makes you stranger."

From nowhere, a cold sweat started beading on Billy's forehead. A glance over at Jackson's white face told him that the other man was in much the same boat, but Jess's look was inscrutable. He had a feeling she spent a lot more time thinking about this than they did. She didn't look surprised. She didn't look angry, or even sad, as he'd expected her to. He'd expected her to just start bawling and run from the room, like the crazy little girl she was. He'd expected her to want them to come find her, comfort her, and he'd already decided not to give a shit how upset she was.

But, as was becoming more common, Jess surprised him. In fact, her expression was a little frightening. She would have looked blank, if not for the crease between her brows. Her body was rigid, her jaw tight. It looked like she'd drawn up inside herself at the first glimpse of the clown. And she didn't blink. She didn't move, either, apart from steadily tipping her drink into her mouth.

Billy took a big swig, too, feeling a buzz at his temples.

At that point, Billy knew none of them wanted to watch it anymore. The utter ludicrousness of the situation was too much to deal with already. What had Jackson been thinking? They didn't _need_ this. What they _needed_ was to stay as far away from the fucking truth as possible.

By then, though, the damage was done. Billy let the following images wash over him passively, purposefully attempting to keep his foggy thoughts from running over every inch of their universal paradox. It was beyond his comprehension, he understood. But it was hard not to want to comprehend it.

The next ten minutes of the film involved Batman's influence on Gotham - his successful quest to strike fear into the hearts of criminals. The Chechen and the Scarecrow's botched drug deal, Commissioner Gordon's investigation, the Batman's insistence that the Joker threat could wait, Harvey Dent's desire for involvement with the vigilante, the Wayne Corporation's international business deals... Those were easy to watch. Even in Gotham, the dilemmas of the rich and lawful had been distant ideas. While the movie helped to make sense of the politics surrounding their crime streak, Billy found he scarcely cared. And, honestly, Batman seemed like a real dick in his personal life.

The problems really began during the second scene involving the Joker, during which he crashed the mob meeting. Every close-up of his painted face on that 64 inch TV screen made Billy and Jackson flinch. His voice, his movements, his personality... Everything was exactly the same as the man they'd known. Spidery, twitchy, utterly insane. Bad. Deeply sarcastic. Casually sadistic. Ugly as sin. Funny as hell.

That was the creepiest bit. How well Billy understood him, right off the bat. How familiar it was. They'd _known_ this guy. Personally. And here he was, just a character in a movie, with a theme of high pitched violin in the background.

Billy almost had to give the director props for so deftly capturing the Joker's being. His moods, that gritty texture of the paint on his forehead, his voice and words... At that point, it was easier to think of the movie as a very good portrayal of real events, especially since none of them had personally experienced the meeting. Of course, Billy understood that the Twenty had newly been in Gotham by then, still wondering, still trying to work out their sanity. The only girl there had been sleeping, and he'd brushed the hair from her sunken eyes for three days. And, like a fucking idiot, he'd started to care.

A glance at Jess made him wish he hadn't looked. That knotted brow hadn't gone anywhere, nor had the tension in her shoulders, but her face had changed. Something like anger was welling in her eyes, contorting her mouth into a thin line. She sat with Business Perv's beefy arm around her and stared fixedly at the screen, as though subconsciously trying to will herself into the scene. She looked like she was halfway towards murdering someone. She looked like she wanted to murder the Joker.

"What do you propose?" the Chechen asked on-screen, dim and greasy as ever. It wasn't too easy to look at him, either, or Gambol, who's mouth Billy had personally seen sliced open. Even Lau's presence on the television made him uneasy. More whiskey. Whiskey would help.

"It's simple," replied the Joker. "We, uh, _kill_ the Batman." Jess scoffed at that, shaking her head in disgust. Business Perv leaned down to whisper something in her ear, and she glanced at him dryly before leaning into him again. Now it was Billy's turn to shake his head in disgust.

When the scene changed to Gordon and Dent on the roof of the MCU, Billy felt himself deflate. Jess and Jackson, too, blinked and relaxed. Without the clown on the screen, this was much easier to watch. He started to dread the Joker's return. He couldn't enjoy this. He wanted to leave.

"I need a cigarette," Jackson said, voicing Billy's thoughts in a strained voice. They got up to walk outside, leaving Jess and Business Perv on the couch, and each of them smoked two, to prolong the break. When they came back inside, it smelled like weed and Jess had her hand on the old guy's knee. The pile of Brian's coke had diminished, too. In the midst of the irritation, Billy had to admit he couldn't blame Jess. He'd want to get as fucked up as possible, too. And fucked as many times as possible.

Pressing play again turned out to be a terrible idea. At the scene change, the set suddenly got too familiar. A pool table in a lush compartment - which Billy knew to be on a yacht - was being used by a dark skinned man in a very nice suit. The blood drained from Billy's face.

"Yo Gambol," one of the man's lackies said from the doorway. "Somebody here for you. They say they've just killed the Joker. They brought the body."

The body bag that Billy had personally zipped up with his boss inside was carried through the door. Billy jerked towards the TV, upsetting his whiskey, careless as it sloshed to the floor. He was unable to unglue his eyes from the image as - there, _right there_ on that fucking screen - Drew entered the room, followed by Laurence and Billy himself.

Jackson's jaw dropped at precisely the same time that Billy's did. From beside him, Billy felt Jess's sharp intake of breath. The world was suddenly spinning, his vision going double, as a heavy wave of vertigo overtook him. He swayed, feeling green and helpless. Jess's nails were suddenly digging into his forearm, but it felt kind of good. Like an anchor. Like this world was real, and what he was witnessing wasn't. Like it wasn't actually _him_ on that screen, or the people he used to know. He blinked until his vision corrected itself.

"I'm gonna puke," Jackson said, standing abruptly and racing to the bathroom, leaving behind a half empty bottle.

"Too much coke?" Business Perv chortled, either ignoring the horrible tension or being too fucking dim to catch on to it. He clearly hadn't recognized Billy in the movie. A cold sweat broke over Billy as this world was suddenly thrown into serious question. What the _fuck_? Was there some actor out there who looked exactly like him? Was this some kind of mass conspiracy? What was _real_ anymore?

Was _Billy_ even real anymore?

From the looks of things, he was a minor character in a fucking _Batman _flick.

Everything was exactly as it had been, a memory put to screen. Nothing was changed, not a single detail - the people, the room, the dialogue, the Joker's speech... It was utterly uncanny, utterly _creepy_. Billy felt dizzy again. The Joker's strange voice seemed to be entering his ears like they were under water, distant and distorted.

"You wanna know how I got these scars?"

Jess didn't stay for the story. She jumped up almost as soon as the boss began it, looking pale and furious, and grabbed Business Perv's hand - the one with the white band of skin where his wedding ring had recently been. She tugged twice and let go, immediately turning and heading towards the stairs. Smirking so hard Billy had to resist the urge to punch him in the face, Business Perv rose slowly, gave Billy the douchiest peace sign he'd ever received, and followed her.

Billy seized the remote, the cold fingers of hatred for everything in this house - even Jackson - creeping up his spine. He jammed his pointer into the stop button and tossed it to the ground. The silence that followed seemed to ring around him. He understood at that point that it would probably be pretty easy for a person to go insane. The human mind was such a frail, stupid thing. Put it under too much stress, it breaks like a twig.

Slowly, pacing himself, Billy edged towards the Blu Ray player and pressed eject. The disc popped out, hot from its encounter with the machine, and he closed his hand over it, careless of leaving fingerprints on the glassy underside. He stared at the black and blue art on the top for a long moment, of all things strangely nostalgic.

He stopped himself, snorting in disgust and fury. Fuck the movie, fuck Gotham and fuck the Joker.

Gently taking the disc in both hands, Billy snapped it in half.

* * *

Rain was drumming against the windowpane by the time the sky grew dark and shadows danced across the ceiling. Jess lay naked on her back, staring in a wide eyed trance at the drops streaking across the glass, still thinking too hard. The room was silent, but for Brian's soft snores beside her. The heavy weight of his forearm across her torso made her feel mildly trapped, but she allowed it for the time. She was feeling sort of... warm towards him, at the moment. In a repulsed sort of way. He had a pretty body, but she'd experienced enough of his personality to see the utter stupidity.

The sex had been fun, though pretty boring considering what she'd gotten used to in Gotham. It went without saying that that level of passion simply wasn't there. Brian, though, hadn't noticed. He'd fucking loved it, judging from the looks on his face and the strangled grunts that had escaped his mouth. He kind of reminded her of a cow or something.

To give him some credit, Jess had to admit he wasn't an obnoxious kisser. He scarcely tried to kiss her at all, actually, which was good because she hadn't wanted him to. Most of their contact had been hands and bodies. She felt nothing romantic towards the human being beside her. And it was pretty good. He'd done alright for himself in the end, and for her. It had been nice to be completely wrapped up in something for a while - though there'd been a terrible moment when the Joker's face flashed through her mind and she'd whispered, "J."

However, it kind of felt like a big _fuck you_ to Gotham's clown. He'd left her. And when she was feeling this bitter, she wanted to leave him behind, too.

Rage felt so much better than loss and disappointment.

They shouldn't have watched that. They should have left that movie alone.

How could a piece of pop-media rule so much of her life? That was another thing to be pissed about.

Seeing the Joker's face again had sent a strange shock wave through her - a jolt of regret, horror and yearning. His movements had been painful to watch, the sleek curve of his frame too familiar. She'd never wanted him so badly - wanted to feel the heavy weight of his arm around her, the reverberations through his lean body as he spoke to a room. His jittery hand against her knee. The smell of smoke clinging to him. The taste of his greasepaint. His restless plucking at her hair. All the little details she'd thought she'd lose, those were the sharpest.

Then the fact that she'd never be in his presence again had hit her with it's blunt pressure. She'd stared at him on the TV, intimidating and marvelous, and thought how that was _his fault_. Sure, he ended up winning. But he left her. It was the man she revered, not his convictions. So she couldn't forgive him for that.

Jess had started to hate looking at him. She'd felt equal parts relieved and disappointed when the camera cut away.

If you thought about it, she'd only managed two scenes with him in them.

When Drew, Laurence and Billy had walked through the on-screen door, it was like the world cracked. Jess had gone through a horrible moment of vertigo and the room started spinning. Some universal paradox bullshit, no doubt. It was the oddest sensation, almost sickening.

As if to validate her experience, Jackson had legitimately puked - Jess had heard him as she passed the bathroom on the way upstairs. Brian, squeezing her ass, had raised his eyebrows and thrown the lavatory a strange look. He hadn't said anything, though. He hadn't asked questions. He was easy.

She'd missed Gotham. She could almost smell it when the camera had panned down the streets or over buildings pricked with light. She'd half expected to see their theater, in all its dilapidated glory. But then she'd started thinking about how, even if she returned home, the Joker was still dead. He, after all, had gone one on one against a heavily armored superhero.

Feeling restless, Jess shoved Brian's arm off of her, causing him to grunt and roll over. She'd come to despise being alone with her thoughts, especially this sober. She hated that pit it opened in her stomach, that weak feeling of helplessness. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Jess stood and paced to the window, stretching her arms and back. She glanced at the sleeping man behind her and almost considered waking him for another go. Just for a distraction. Just for something to do. But she thought better of it. Let him rest.

Doing as she had learned to over the past few weeks, Jess buried the emotions by smoking some weed. It was amazing how the tranquility of the high erased the anxiety and regret unless she specifically thought about it. But when she was feeling this floaty it was easier to focus on simple things, like the way the spiderweb in the corner caught the light or the pleasing male form stretched out on her bed. And it was nearly impossible to be _angry_ about anything. Sometimes she had to veer around potholes of sadness or self-exploration, but it was so much better than sober.

After pulling on dark skinny jeans, a bra and a black tanktop, Jess threw a couple supplies in a bag and loped downstairs to the dark and empty living room. Jackson seemed to be sleeping - his door was shut, and soft snores reverberated through the wood - but Billy was Christ-knows-where. His door had been wide when she'd passed it, and he hadn't been in his bed. She hoped she wouldn't see him on the way out. For some reason, she didn't want to have to explain where she was going and why.

Jess hailed a taxi after only a few blocks and directed it to Bellevue, east of the city. While in the back of the cab, she sipped furtively from the little flask of whiskey she'd brought with her. By the end of the twenty minute drive, she was pleasantly light headed and buzzing. Which, she reflected, might not have been the smartest move considering her chosen activity tonight, but fuck it.

She drained the rest of the drink as soon as she stepped from the car, threw the cabby his fare plus twenty-five percent, and hid behind a tree to smoke a joint. Then, intoxicated enough to actually smile, Jess made her way purposefully towards the low white building across from a storage lot.

The employee working the check-in stand tonight knew her. She'd been coming here for weeks, since first discovering its existence, at least every other day and always at night. The pale gangly young man waved her in without checking her ID or her license to carry (both fake), and she threw him a provocative smile as she swept by. She could almost feel his eyes burning holes into the ass of her jeans.

In the locker room, Jess opened her backpack. She withdrew first the pair of high black pumps she'd worn in Gotham (and never since), taking a long moment to stare at them. She'd snatched them up on a whim right before leaving her room, some vague thought forming about learning to do everything in heels. It would be harder, as Jackson had once told her, but she was getting quite good already. And some part of her, for some reason, _really_ wanted to wear these shoes again.

Shrugging, Jess tugged off her worn boots and slipped on the heels. She stood shakily, testing her equilibrium, and was pleased to discover they fit as well as ever. Something about balancing on the balls of her feet was actually empowering - it made her posture better and her legs feel longer. Permitting herself another little smile, Jess bent down and dug into the bag again, for the heavy black case therein.

The gun she pulled out was not the very firearm she'd briefly kept in Gotham, but it was the same model. A Glock 37, sleek and black and beautiful, hefty to lift and comforting to hold. Her hand curled perfectly around the handle, as though the weapon had been made for her, and she'd painted a little smiley face in Wite-Out just above the clip. Jackson had presented it to her as a belated birthday gift, when she'd found out she'd been in Gotham for her nineteenth. Just the sight of it made her smile. She loved this thing.

Glock in her hand and heels on her feet, Jess entered the shooting range. It was empty tonight - the very reason she tended to do this around closing - and she basked for a moment in the sterility and silence. The smell of gunpowder and discharge hung in the air. After nodding to the bored attendant, she walked over to her usual booth and set up - clearing and safing, loading the clip, the earmuffs, the stance, yadda yadda yadda.

The first blast of the gun sent a shockwave through her shoulders and a heady tingling through her skull. Jess watched in satisfaction as the bullet ripped through the paper head of the target. She wobbled in the heels, but upon taking half a step back with her left foot and balancing her weight, she felt quite sturdy. Her aim really was getting better, her arms stronger, and every time she fired the piece she remembered why she loved it. It made her feel powerful, completely untouchable, dangerous. Strangely enough, too, it made her feel more in control about Alex. Her first kill. Mastering the weapon she'd used against him had a bizarre calming effect. She could do it right, next time. She'd aim for his right shoulder and hit it - not a kill shot this time. Just to debilitate him.

She fired four more shots in rapid succession, each blowing a hole through the target's shoulder.

After reloading the clip, Jess set about making a hole in the center of the human-shaped target's chest. Biting her lip and imagining the Batman, Jess squeezed the trigger again and again and again. Inevitably, as was becoming common, the image in her mind slowly morphed into the mirthful face of the Joker. His white greasepaint ran down his face in sweaty rivulets, the green hair lay tangled and wavy. She drove bullet after bullet through him, but the smile wouldn't quit. The mocking laughter wouldn't stop.

It was one thing to hate him, but to miss him while she hated him… Talk about adding insult to injury.

"Fucking… left... me…" Jess whispered over three successive shots. "Fucking… psycho… bastard…" Magazine empty. Reload. "I'll… kill… you… again… you… bastard…" Her voice was drowned out in gun blasts, already muffled through gritted teeth. Reload.

It was like fucking meditation. Jess's mind went blank after a while at the gun range, lulled by the rhythmic blasts, her eyes focused only on the black holes appearing on white paper. Images went through her brain - how the bullets would look ripping through sleek black Kevlar or purple and green cotton; Gotham at night; the rotten velvet seats in their theater - but no conscious thought. It was utter peace, and it was worth the ten bucks a month.

The thing about guns, she came to reflect, was that shooting them at paper felt exactly like shooting them at real people. There was no texture difference, the way there would be with a knife, or even a change in sound. No extra effort. You could forget if you were killing someone. You could kill someone and _not even know. _It was just as easy either way. Somehow, that idea made her feel better.

Jess grunted every time she pulled the trigger, focusing all the rage in her system at the now ragged white target. She muttered curses and gritted her teeth and glared. Her arms were starting to ache in a really wonderful way, her hands and wrists going numb from the shockwaves. Her eyes watered from holding them open so long – _not _tears; no way was she _crying_ – and her jaw felt stiff after all the teeth-grinding.

"Fuck… you… Fuck… you… Fuck… you…" Reload. "Fuck… you… Fuck… you… Fuck… you…"

"Ma'am?"

Jess jumped, then stiffened, lowering the gun and slowly turning around to see a range employee standing behind her. At the attendant's surprised, frightened look, she softened her features, realizing she was still scowling. She pulled off her earmuffs and raised her eyebrows.  
It was the same pale young man from the front desk, thin and clothed in black, and on top of looking intimidated, his wide eyes were now distinctly wary.

"Uh…" he said, his voice unsteady. "We're closing in ten. My boss wants me to shut down the range."

Jess sighed and relaxed, fluidly releasing the empty clip and turning on the Glock's safety. She set the gun on the counter with a resigned thud. The spell was broken. She was back in reality.

"Okay," she said, purposefully making her voice soft and feminine. "I'll pack up."

The pallid employee nodded and made to turn away, but seemed to think better of it. He stopped and held up a long-fingered hand to her, revealing a black shape tattooed on the fleshy pad of his thumb.

"Um... so…" he said, and Jess braced for the worse. _Don't fucking hit on me_. "You're not supposed to shoot in heels, you know. You could fall. Or break your ankles." Jess managed a little chuckle.

"Weird," she replied, "my friend said the same thing. I think it's kinda badass though, don't you?" You should've seen this kid blush. It was especially noticeable on the paper white neck under that shaggy mop of black hair.

"Yeah," he agreed, chuckling nervously. "I didn't stop you when I noticed you on the monitors earlier. But the coworkers might. Just be careful." He gave a pitiful wave and turned around to leave.

"Is that a tattoo on your hand?" Jess called, bending to pack up the Glock. Smiling, the boy spun back towards her and took a couple steps forward. He was taller than her, even in the heels, and kind of cute in geeky way. Big green eyes over a pretty smile. Black hemp necklace, two bracelets, and black jeans. The t-shirt was black, too, but it had the Zelda Tri-Force emblazoned across the chest in silver. He thrust out his pale, spidery hand palm-up and showed her the Deathly Hallows symbol in black ink on his thumb pad. Geek, indeed.

"It's from - " he began.

"Harry Potter, yeah," Jess said dryly, taking his hand to get a better look. She stroked his palm twice before releasing him. She'd loved those books of course, back when she was normal. It was weirdly refreshing to find another fan. Like nothing had happened and she still read children's books. "Cool."

"Thanks." His smile was fresh and innocent. Jess tilted her head as she looked at him, thinking that she could use someone like this guy in her life. Someone whose days were blameless and easy: work and video games and movies and maybe a joint or two. Someone who wasn't a dealer or a thief or a psychopath.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Ian," he replied. He was turned towards her fully now, his stance indicative of the fact that he wasn't going anywhere. "You're Jessica, right?" He flushed again. "I've seen your ID like five times." Jess hadn't used a fake first name on her false licenses, but she had changed her last to Napier, the Joker's surname in the comics (for which she felt pathetic now).

"Jess," she replied, shaking his hand. "So…" she gestured at his Zelda shirt. "What kind of consoles do you have?"

* * *

By three that morning, Jess was slumped on Ian's living room couch, kicking ass at Nazi Zombies with him and his two roommates. All of them smoked weed and played a lot of Modern Warfare, and it was wonderfully refreshing to be around people who had no idea who or what she was. Besides, she was fucking awesome at first person shooters. She hadn't played a video game since high school.

It felt peaceful and normal, and the bowls they were smoking didn't hurt. At some point Jess had picked up a few bottles of wine from the convenience store around the corner, and they'd gone through most of them. When they were all too twisted to aim, Ian turned off the Xbox and asked Jess what she did today.

Not thinking, Jess replied, "Watched part of a movie." And as soon as the words were out of her mouth, it felt like the last five hours hadn't happened. It felt like she was still sitting on Jackson's couch, watching the Joker laugh and intimidate. Her stomach turned. She suddenly felt sick.

"Which one?"

"_Star Wars_," Jess lied, standing and stretching and trying not to wretch. "Listen, I gotta go." She wanted suddenly to be alone, feeling utterly depressed. Ian walked her to the door after she said goodbye to his friends. They exchanged numbers and hugged, but she wasn't feeling good about any of this anymore.

What part did she have in this college boy's easy life, in his apartment with his big screen and his Xbox? She was a _murderer_, and the worst he'd ever done was run from the cops at a house party.

She probably shouldn't call him, she decided on the walk home, an open bottle of wine clutched in one hand. It didn't matter that she liked him. It didn't matter that he made her feel normal. He was too good to get involved in her fucked up world.

But the drinking made it hard to dwell on that serious shit. Staring at the stars, humming and swaying and swigging her wine, Jess headed for home and thought of the Joker.

* * *

Blake's breath caught in his throat and he gasped as he fell, his own knee catching him in the gut. He was going to have some bruises on his rib cage, he knew already - fucking bruises from his own fucking knee. As if he didn't have enough on his mind right now to piss him off.  
But, really, there was no time to dwell on any of that, because he was under fire and he had to get up and run… fucking run… run, Blake, run…

He always seemed to be running nowadays.

He hadn't returned to the theater after the Joker had been arrested. Indeed, the idea had seemed absolutely ludicrous, with all that happened. The boss had told him that there was a safe place through that door in the basement – along with some bullshit about "three o'clock, day or night" – but he'd also said that Jess had the key. The door was locked tight. And, well, Jess had fucking disappeared, hadn't she?

Blake ducked into a niche between buildings, flinching as bullets whizzed by, striking the brick. He cursed. He _had _to be out of their territory by now – why were they still following him?

"You got ten minutes to get the fuck out," that greasy bastard had said. _Ten minutes my ass_. Not three must have passed before he heard them on his tail, firing at random to scare the shit out of him.

God, everything was so fucked up…

Ever since the boss had been arrested… taken to Arkham…

Christ, the idea of that man in an asylum was half funny, half terrifying. Blake almost felt sorry for his guards and doctors. That place would never break the Joker. He'd break that place. He'd rip it apart from the inside out, laughing while he did it. People would die - innocent people; doctors, nurses, cafeteria ladies… They'd die and the boss would spread his influence to the rest of Gotham. Blake didn't need Logan's little comic books to tell him that.

He let out a breath as a couple men raced by, whooping and firing, not seeing him in the shadows. He was far from safe, this close, but maybe if he made his way quietly…

Keeping close to the brick wall, Blake scooted around the corner and into a narrow alley between the vast warehouses. He shimmied along in the opposite direction of Sid's hideout, hand on the gun tucked into his jeans. That… had been a mistake. He should have known the Russians wouldn't be pleased to see his ugly mug again. But, shit, he'd had to do _something_.

He supposed all the members of the Twenty - at least the ones he was still in touch with - knew the boss would escape at one point or another, but until then they were just waiting for him. And, to avoid feeling utterly impotent, they'd tried their hand at breaking into Gotham's underground crime network. Problem was, Gotham was a city of mobs. And those weren't exactly welcoming to outsiders – especially outsiders involved with the clown who'd tricked and betrayed them or their relatives.

Five of the Twenty that Blake knew of were in jail. Five, including him, were alive and well, living as a group in an apartment building they'd found in the Narrows on the outskirts of Gotham.

The other nine?

No idea.

They'd all gotten split up that night.

He worried about all of them. Some part of Blake felt responsible for how fucked up things had gotten that night – how badly the plan had gone astray. Fucking Batman.

Blake slipped under a chain link fence, into a quiet backstreet near a residential neighborhood. Slowing his pace and straightening, Blake strode down the street, trying to look casual. He made for the shitty little houses and apartment buildings between the power lines. He smiled when he passed a kid on a red bike, but it was so strained the kid just looked at him funny and quickly rode away. Blake let out a shaky breath when he rounded a corner and the warehouse district disappeared from sight.

Blake wanted to fix it, for everyone. He had checklist – a kind of fantasy – of all the things he needed to take care of. He'd get the guys some money. He'd spring the other guys from jail. He'd get in touch with the Joker in Arkham and (and here was the pipe dream) he'd get the boss the fuck out of that asylum. He'd get an in with one of the crime families, maybe the Rileys. He'd find Jess. He'd make her forgive him.

The guilt was especially heavy when Blake thought of that fucking girl. He only had to remember what she'd been like when she'd first come to Gotham, how drastically that had altered, and it made him want to punch something. Looking back, he hadn't even tried to prevent it. She'd changed rapidly, and he'd encouraged it, finding it amusing at first. Then she became a constant source of every kind of frustration. She shouldn't have fit into that world, but she was _trying _to. And he still hadn't protected her, from herself or the man she adored so much.

Then, when things had gotten real, he'd betrayed her. The boss had, too. If Jess couldn't trust them, who the fuck could she?

Blake hopped onto a bus five blocks down, looking as inconspicuous as possible, despite his bleeding knee and dirty white shirt under the leather jacket. He ran a hand over the sweat in his white blond hair, and took his first deep breath since this morning.

He stayed awake worrying some nights, smoking cigarette upon cigarette. What had happened to them? Those in jail, he knew they'd at least be alive. Those he lived with, obviously he kept tabs on them. But Jackson? Billy? Drew? Seth? Christ, Seth was just a kid. And Jess? What the fuck about Jess? Talk about kid. She could be huddled on a cold street corner somewhere, or working as a stripper in a sleazy mob night club. She could be a fucking _whore_ by now, knowing what he knew about how the Gotham underworld treated young vulnerable women.

Christ. No wonder Laurence called him _dad_.

He got off the bus a couple blocks from home and lingered outside to smoke. It was a cold night in Gotham, the wind whipping relentlessly between the tall, slender buildings of the Narrows. A couple homeless kids were huddled in the entryway of the apartment complex next to his, fumbling with something wrapped in tinfoil. When they asked for a cigarette, he threw four their way.

Drug addicts, the homeless, criminals and their families, innocent families on welfare, prostitutes, pimps and psychos – all of them found their homes in the Narrows. The dark craggy gates of Arkham Asylum rose from the hill in the distance, looking down on the destitute and evil like a foreboding demi-god. And it had only gotten worse since Batman had disappeared.

It had been two weeks now. Fourteen days since the money had burned, since the Joker had been taken to Arkham, since nine of the only people Blake could trust had vanished and five more had been arrested. Since Batman had suddenly decided to to give up his life of vigilantism, doubtless for a poolside martini and a model to fuck.

Talk about mixed blessings. It was nice not to watch the bat symbol in the sky and wonder if he was looking for you. But it was painfully clear to Blake that things had gotten a lot worse for those on the fringes of society - for people like him. Maybe the bureaucrats and corporate bigwigs were having a good time - TV said Gotham's economy was up, up, UP! - but the Narrows were worse than ever. Without the Bat's influence, the crime families were once again exerting total control, which meant brawls, shoot-outs, looting, and rationing of food, water and even electricity to some of the poorer parts of the district.

You couldn't go anywhere for a drink, either. All the bars in the fucking area were full of gangsters, who glared and threatened if you were male and preyed if you were female.

Stabbing out the butt of his smoke, Blake climbed the steps of his apartment building. He shared a two bedroom with Laurence, directly down the hall from the three bedroom inhabited by Tom, Logan and Jonny. The boys might be home, but Laurence was still at work - graveyard shift at the local Taco Bell. And, honestly, that was just fine. Blake wanted to be alone right the fuck now.

After climbing three flights of stairs - no elevator, go figure - he stopped at his shoddy apartment door and fumbled for a moment with his keys. Someone was smoking in one of the rooms down the hall; the smell was thick in the air. It irritated him, even though he'd just finished a cigarette.

The key felt strange in the lock. Blake had to give it a couple shakes before the tumblers caught and it turned. Pushing the door open, he paused, staring into the blackness of the apartment beyond.

The smell of tobacco smoke was thicker _inside_, wafting through the door in vaporous clouds. Blake's hand crept to the gun in his jeans. As he slipped silently into the dark apartment, he slid the safety off.

Moonlight was streaming in through the living room window, reflecting off the clouds of smoke that emanated from the direction of the couch. Drawing his gun, feeling a dull sense of anger, Blake crept toward the doorway.

The man sitting on the couch, bathed in the glow of Gotham's moon, was very tall, but very thin, almost emaciated. Long, stringy hair fell to his shoulders and into his sunken eyes. His beak-like nose looked as though it had been broken several times, and sat awkwardly above thin, cracked lips. He held a cigarette to his mouth and pulled in a deep drag, the cherry glowing in the darkness.

"Who the fuck are you?" Blake demanded, a little too loud, planting himself in the doorway with the gun at his side. The smoking man looked at him blithely, lips splitting to form a crooked yellow smile.

"I have a message for you," he said. "From the Joker."

* * *

**Sorry about the cliffy (but, no, I'm not really) ;) Hope you enjoyed.**

**I didn't want to write the movie from Jess's point of view - too exhausting. For me, and for you guys. I thought Billy would be a nice filter, as opposed to going through all the crazy thoughts. **

**Anyway, let me know what you think! Review please!**


	3. Chapter 3

**What up, my peeps?**

**I just want to address an issue that's been coming up in reviews - the drug and alcohol use in this story. People seem to be really bothered by it, which I expected but don't really understand. I, personally, am not in the slightest bothered by discussion on it. Obviously if some guy were shooting up heroin in my living room, yeah, I'd have a huge problem. But this is fiction, this is another world, and quite frankly these people are drug users.**

**Think about it like this: my character is going through an insanely difficult time for her right now. She's not very good at coping with her emotions (if you haven't noticed) and more often than not she's immature and reckless. Couple that with the fact that she lives with a drug dealer and has never had any serious consequences with drugs (just a ton of fun) and you can understand why she would turn to them. They alter the mind and make it difficult to focus on the stress and hardships. She's approaching the world with a "screw it, why not?" attitude. If I was in her position, I'd probably do the same thing. Just for a distraction. Because otherwise I'd be dwelling on an unsolvable problem.**

**Anyway, the angst and emotion suppression is coming to an end (for now) so hopefully it will become more tolerable to those with a problem with it.**

**This chapter is a bit intercalary. But I promise, it's all leading up to something(s). Hope it's not boring. Enjoy and review!**

* * *

Now I got shrinks that will not rest  
With their endless Rorschach tests.  
I keep telling them that I think they're out to get me.  
They ask me if I feel remorse  
And I answer, "Why of course.  
There's so much more I could have done if they'd have let me."  
So it's Rorschach and Prozac and everything is groovy.

-Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, "The Curse of Millhaven"

Ruth Adams was staring at him again. She spent a lot of time doing that - sitting there, watching. It was cold, clinical... analytical. Annoying. Like every little movement he made and every word he said would tell her something about him. But she seemed to remain hilariously stumped.

Only a week in, and they were already grasping at straws. From the first day on, Doctor Adams had him pumped full of Haloperidols and munching Ritalin until his throat bled. These didn't seem to have any effect, as far as the Joker could tell - besides, perhaps, occasional dry mouth.

And so, what they called "therapy." He spent hours a day with this woman, cramped and chained in a metal chair, looking for more in the way of actual conversation than the mindless babbling of crazies or the night handyman. He was getting sick of his ward-mates already, with their low mutterings and violent, yet absurdly predictable, outbursts. A serial killer named Victor Zsasz, who lived in the cell across the hall, had at first seemed a promising companion, given his evident appreciation for taking lives. But he proved uninteresting. He usually sat twisted in the corner of his windowed cell, consumed with counting the tally marks etched into his skin, his thin fingers languidly tracing each scar. The clown thought there was probably some kind of sexual fetish there. Victor Zsasz was not his type.

The Joker was dying for _something _ to pique his enthusiasm in this place. But did Ruth Adams ever try to talk about anything _interesting_? No. She'd ask him to describe his _day_ (Tuesday - pizza and an escorted walk in the dim grey courtyard) or ask about the things he'd done, or quiz him on his childhood. Yesterday he'd told her a story about how his father had started selling heroin when he was six, bringing all these thugs to the house who'd beat up on his mom or rape her while the old man was passed out in the back bedroom. After two months of constant abuse, he'd strangled his father with the telephone cord and lit fire to the building to discard the evidence. Here was the funny part: he hadn't realized his mom was still locked in the bathroom of their blazing apartment. And that's how come he was an orphan.

Ruth had simply tweaked an eyebrow and scribbled something in her little notebook. "How'd you light the building?"

"I sparked an electrical fire with the cables in the basement," he'd stated immediately.

"You mean to tell me," replied Ruth Adams, "that at six years old, you strangled a grown man, broke into the basement maintenance room, clipped the right wires and got a fire going so strong as to raze an entire building?

The Joker had thrown back his head and laughed.

But she was no fun. She didn't blink. She sure as hell didn't _believe_. All she did was ask an occasional question. And watch.

He was in no mood for the silence today. He needed some _stimulation_, or he'd really start going crazy. The Joker cleared his throat uncomfortably and leaned toward her with his version of a sympathetic smile.

"Uh, Ruth, you're staring." She didn't reply. The Joker sighed. "Listen, I know you find me attractive," one of Ruth's penciled eyebrows popped up, "but you really oughta think _professionally_. How do I start to heal when all my therapist wants to do is get in my pants?" The psychiatrist's look was utterly flat. She never laughed at jokes involving her. "It wouldn't work, Ruthy. And _besides_... I'm _taken_."

"Taken..." Ruth rolled the word around on her tongue and reached for the cigarette pack in her breast pocket. The Joker sneered as she slowly took one out and lit it, forcing him to wait for her to speak. He _hated_ that. One day he'd throw the old woman across the room and stab that burning ember in her eye.

When the question finally came, it was in a gravelly voice clouded with smoke, and it was so predictable the Joker had to laugh. "Got a special girl back home?"

"What _I_ really want to talk about," the Joker replied, "is _your_ special girl back home. Your daughter. Annabelle, I think you said." Ruth clenched her jaw and slowly, deliberately, ashed her cigarette in the glass tray on the side table. This room was sparsely furnished, white walled and far too bright. It held only his metal chair - bolted to the floor - and a couch and table for his doctor. There wasn't even a window, but there was an ashtray. His psychiatrist demanded her amenities. The Joker leaned forward, raising shackled hands to point at her. "Eleven years old, right?"

"Okay, I understand," Ruth Adams replied. "The girls back home are off limits." She was never forthcoming with personal information, but he'd milked her daughter's name and age from her after seeing a little photo in her office. Only a few minutes later he'd been forcibly (and rudely) removed from said office. One little comment about visiting her at home some time (and trying to break Winslow-the-Orderly's little shins when he moved forward to intervene), and from then on they'd conducted their interviews here in the High Security Ward.

Ruth hadn't forgotten that day either, it seemed. "Though, to be fair," she said, "shouldn't you tell me your girl's name?"

"Uh... Chaos is _my_ mistress, and she's older than time," the Joker said haughtily, not without sarcasm. Ruth Adams rolled her eyes as he burst into giggles.

"Well, that's fine. Everybody has to keep some things close and dear." That was Ruth's way of challenging him. And the frustrating thing was, she made him want to rise to it. _Close and dear_. There was nothing worse than an idiot who thought she was clever.

Then again, what could it hurt?

"What if I told you there _is_ someone... _devoted_ to me?" he asked, watching the interest flare in her eyes. He never spoke about his life just prior to Arkham, mostly because she very much wanted him to. She asked about his crimes _all the time_. Give her a taste of something juicy but unimportant to keep her hooked and wriggling...

"Hm? What if I told you she was a school girl when I met her? All... fresh faced and _cute_. Kinda like your little Annabelle." Ruth could never help the flash of fear in her eyes when he spoke of her daughter. It made him smile. "Older though. Old enough. What if I told you, I _plucked_ her off the street?" He snatched at the air in front of him, and his therapist flinched. For the first time today, she looked worried. The Joker smiled. "It's amazing, what she turned into."

"You mean to say, what you turned her into."

"Naturally." The Joker shrugged. "See, I have this way of inspiring _loyalty_."

"Where is she now?"

The clown's sigh was wistful as he pulled a look of mocking sadness. "Worlds away. Probably," he giggled, "_pining_ for me."

"Hm. Pining."

"Yeah. She can't get _enough_ of me, doc."

"It must be nice, to have such a fervid admirer," Ruth Adams said, her smile indicating that she didn't believe him. It was funny, too, because it was one of the only things he'd told her that was true.

"_I_ think you underestimate my _charms_."

Ruth shook her head. "I don't think I do. Actually, I suppose this isn't much of a stretch at all. I've seen the kinds of things you can talk people into."

Had Harvey's little indiscretions reached the media monkeys already? The Joker had heard he was dead, and still the subject of idol worship. You'd think a couple murders and a horrible disfiguration would change the public opinion, but Gothamites were idiots among imbeciles. They gobbled whatever you gave them, and if someone was stuffing lies of Dent's innocence down their throat, they'd swallow.

"What _kinds _ of things have you seen, _doc_?" the Joker asked. Ruth Adams sat back, regarding him with tight lips.

"I worked with Thomas Schiff for years," she said finally. The Joker frowned. This wasn't about Dent at all. "Remember him?"

Not one of the Twenty... "Remind me."

"Tall, dark hair, suffering from schizophrenia. He was functioning well on his medication, so we allowed him to begin living off site. He disappeared a month later, only to reappear in police custody on the day of Commissioner Loeb's funeral."

"_Ah_..." the Joker breathed, settling back into his seat. The schizo he'd dressed up as a cop. "_Schiff_. He was a _doll_."

"He was a gentle, kind individual," Ruth insisted. "Though he stopped his meds shortly after meeting you, and began to spiral downward again. Your influence too, no doubt."

"_Me_?" the Joker asked, putting a hand to his chest and looking injured. "What did _I _have to do with a _downward spiral_?" Ruth Adams threw him a terse look, one that said _don't play stupid_.

"Did you not manipulate him to aid in the attempted murder of Gotham's mayor?"

"Let me ask you something," the Joker said, waving away her question. "If you give a guy some _pills - _dose his brain until he _behaves_ - how is that different from manipulation?" He raised his eyebrows. "Hm? I mean, a man's a man because of what's going on up here." He tapped the blond roots of his hair. "He has his own _ideas_. His own way of _seeing_ things. But force feed a man some pills..." He smacked his lips. "You _change_ that. You _disrupt _it. You alter how a guy thinks, you alter who he is. Cause and _effect_, doc. Behavioral brain chemistry. All I did was show Thomas Schiff his own potential. Show him the _possibilities_." Ruth Adams wasn't sure how to react to this logic. The Joker smiled and leaned towards her again. "See, at least with me... _I'm _not taking away his _free will_."

"Neither does Olanzapine, Joker."

"No no no, that's where you're wrong," he replied. "It _does_. It takes away his right to be insane - it changes who he is _naturally_. For the sake of the _law_." He sat back in his chair. "You can't tell me that's not manipulation."

Ruth Adam's lips were pinched - apparently he'd hit a nerve. He grinned at her, watching her carefully concealed and controlled anger bubble to the surface. She'd _liked_ Thomas Schiff (inconceivably - who would _like_ Thomas Schiff?) Maybe they were lovers. Maybe he had a big dick or something. He decided to ask.

"The session is over for today," Ruth Adams said first, before he opened his mouth. "You've given me a lot to think about, as usual."

"That's what I'm _here_ for," he replied. Like he was the therapist. The thought brought a smile to his lips.

"I'll close on the usual question," Ruth said. The Joker rolled his eyes. The same thing, every day for the past week. She seemed to think she could irritate him into giving something away. "What's your real name, Joker?"

"I'll close on the usual question, too," he replied. "Where does a guy like me find a little greasepaint in this joint?" Ruth Adams was up and headed for the door before he'd finished, so he called after her. "Hm? You could use some yourself, Ruthy. White and red might suit you." He was giggling by the time Rory-the-orderly strode in with the big beefy redneck who was covering for little Winslow - out nursing a bruised shin. But he didn't miss Ruth Adam's fleeting smile as she glanced back at him and closed the door behind her.

Arkham Asylum's High Security Ward was a relatively new addition to the huge, Baroquean institute, having been built only twenty years ago to house criminal mastermind Oswald Cobblepot, known as the Penguin. The Joker wished he was still around. He liked what he'd heard of the guy.

In this wing, every wall was white and every floor was equipped with emergency lighting. The high ceilings were lined with fluorescent lights you couldn't break without a shotgun and the cells had wide windows of reinforced fiberglass. Sitting inside his little white room, the Joker felt rather like Hannibal Lector in _Silence of the Lambs_ - dangerous, bored, and impotent.

Well, maybe not completely impotent.

The doors on each cell were constructed from thick steel, and barred with state-of-the-art electronic locks that responded to fingerprint analysis. They _really_ didn't want him out roaming the halls.

At the time of his capture, the Joker had three ward mates: Victor Zsasz (serial killer and obsessive tallier), Julian Day (whom everybody just called "Calendar Man" and who wouldn't shut up about the leap year), and the hugest guy the Joker had ever met. He was silent, well over seven feet tall, and had so much muscle mass that his black skin was a scaly mess of veins and scars. He never mentioned his name - just growled - so the Joker had started calling him Croc.

Croc was the only one of the three that the Joker could tolerate at this point. He, at least, was still and silent. And while that was boring, it sure as hell wasn't as obnoxious as "fifty four... fifty five... fifty six..." and "Thirty days has September."

"Listen," he said, as Rory pushed him into his cell, "Ruthy said you'd bring me a pen and a piece of paper." A blatant lie. The orderly slammed the door behind him without even asking what for. Rory didn't like him very much.

Letting out a resigned sigh, the Joker slumped onto his hard cot and stared out to the hallway beyond. He wondered fleetingly whether old Blakey had gotten a visit from anyone unusual, and how this plan would pan out with him orchestrating it from behind bars. He'd always been able to participate in the action before, but in here he could only be the brains of the operation. It was exciting. It was a challenge.

But all this _waiting_...

The Joker attempted to once more go over the steps involved, to find any cracks in his logic, but the mumblings of his ward mates were particularly distracting this evening. He couldn't shut out white noise anyway (his greatest strength, really), and these three made a lot of white noise. Calendar Man was singing a loud rendition of April Showers on repeat. Croc, growling for food, had taken to bringing his huge fist crashing against his cell window to the beat. Across from him, Zsasz had just reached one hundred-eight.

"_Zsasz_!" the Joker shouted. The serial killer was immediately distracted, and his head popped up from his work, his sunken eyes wild and wondering. There was a moment of total silence as the other inmates paused at his cry too, but when he didn't speak again their thumping and singing started right back up. And Zsasz went back to counting, only now it was "One... two... three..."

And the Joker added his high-pitched howls of laughter to the cacophony, amused by the frustration in the serial killer's tone. Zsasz's counting had gotten louder, trying to beat the distraction caused by his ward mates, but his syllables were clipped and annoyed. He'd lost track. He had to start over.

The Joker ended up screaming Zsasz's name four more times that evening, when he reached relatively high numbers. The serial killer became wise to him the third time around, however, and started counting in his head, so the Joker took to shouting his name at random, lengthy intervals. By the time Zsasz was against his glass, snarling at the Joker to shut the fuck up, they'd been served their dinner and the lights had been dimmed for bed.

Two watchmen took up their posts at either end of the hallway. While they might have, at one point, been worrisome to him, the Joker decided they'd be easy enough to deal with when the time came. One he was bribing into absence, by way of the nighttime handyman and a special stash of money he kept in the old theater basement. The second guard was old, with terrible night vision and worse hearing. Not exactly the cream of the crop. They did have guns, however. But then again, if there were no obstacles it would be boring.

Freddy stopped by at exactly one thirty every night, pulling his cart of mops and towels and filthy water. This full time after-hours janitor had been the Joker's first outside resource in this place, and so remarkably simple to procure. A few whispered words, a few promises and bullshit theories, and the dimwit was eating out of the palm of the Joker's hand. People were easy that way. If they knew you were powerful they wanted a piece. And if they knew you were smarter than them, they didn't argue as to how they got it.

There was no question as to the relative IQs of the two. Freddy knew he was stupid - "Has been ever since I was a baby" - and he had come to idolize the clown in only six short days. The way those sunken eyes gazed at him in his cell, like he was the fucking Buddha... It was hard sometimes not to laugh in his face.

"Got anything good for me tonight, Freddy?" the Joker asked, seated on his cot, feet firmly planted pointing outwards. The tall man outside the glass shook his stringy hair from his eyes, and a self-satisfied smile lit up beneath that huge hooked nose. He plucked a hair from his filthy gray jumpsuit.

"Got you a answer, boss," he whispered, pressing up to the window. More and more lately, the custodian seemed to desire close physical proximity to the clown. Disgusting. The Joker wasn't looking forward to what Freddy would try when he could actually leave his cell.

"Well?" said the Joker. "What did Blakey have to say?"

"Took some doing, you know," Fred said instead of answering the question. Like he wanted a pat on the greasy head. The Joker tapped his fingers irritably against his thighs. "I started at that old theater you told me about. Looked all over the warehouse district. I asked around. His hair made it easy though." Fred let out a wheezy chuckle. "Guys ain't got white hair when they're thirty, you know?"

"Cut to the chase, Freddy."

A look of fear flashed over Fred's face at the Joker's dark expression. "Sure, okay, boss," he said. "Found a guy that knew him. Pointed me in the right direction, so to speak. Followed Blake Emille home. Got in his apartment." Fred wheezed again. "He weren't expecting no guests."

"And you told him everything?"

"I got it all wrote down here," Freddy said, pulling a wrinkled piece of paper from his coveralls. "My brain don't remember so well, you know." He unfolded the paper and began to read words the Joker knew very well - because he had helped Freddy painstakingly transcribe them two days earlier. He hadn't trusted the janitor's brain, either.

"No, no, no," the Joker said before Fred had finished his first halting sentence. "Not _here_, Freddy."

"Anyhow, he wrote a copy," Fred replied, looking utterly satisfied with his own cleverness. "He says three days. October thirty." The Joker grinned at this, even as Calendar Man started up his chant of "Thirty days has September" again in an eerily hushed tone. He stood and crossed to the glass, where Fred shrank away, intimidated. He put a scarred hand to the pane, as though he could push through.

"_Perfect_," said the Joker, relishing the word on his tongue.

Three days.

He could wait three days.

* * *

Sunlight streams in the high windows, rainbow reflections dancing off the crystal chandelier above. They glint off dust motes, shimmer across wooden balustrades, illuminate the dusty marble floor. Jess spins slow circles to make the world whir and shimmer.

The theater lobby is lush and glittering. As old as it is, the only signs of decay are in periphery. Dust blows away as Jess turns towards it. Mold creeps back into itself under her gaze. Broken beams reknit and shattered glass reforms. But as soon as her back is turned, it all turns to rot. She supposes, as she spins to extend the glamour, that it doesn't matter. It's all a matter of perception. It's all utterly relative.

A figure appears at the top of the grand staircase as she whirls by it. Crystal shards of light flash across his leather trench coat and gleam off the green hair, highlighting his bizarre beauty. She stops immediately, breathless, her bangs wisping across her face. He is clothed all in black, a sharp contrast against the stark white face and garish red smile. Grinning, he takes a step down the stairs.

"Do you find it beautiful?" Jess asks him, gesturing at the grand hall. The Joker's lip curls. Doubtless he sees its truth - the black mold in the corners, the muck and graffiti on the walls, the cockroaches and maggots.

Her heart jumps at his approach, filled with a keen longing, a startling tenderness. A fervent desire to be in his arms. His body is slim and sturdy and his hands hang lazily at his sides. But his face, chin tucked and tilted downwards, is intense. The dark pits of his eyes are pricked with fierce green light. _That's odd_, thinks Jess. _My J has brown eyes._

It doesn't matter as soon as he touches her. Slowly, almost gently, the Joker pulls her against him, one hand clasping hers, the other sliding around her waist to the small of her back. He nips at her neck, saying words he's said before, and she feels a warmth spread through her. She groans in contentment and leans against his shoulder. His breathing deepens as his hands begin to slide over her arms, down to her hips. They sway to silence in the glimmering decadence of the theater lobby.

The mood escalates before she even realizes it's rising. The Joker fists a hand in her hair and turns her head to pull her lips to his. She can taste and smell him exactly, can feel the hard press of his abdomen against her, his pulse thundering through her body. His breath fills her nose, the taste of greaspaint and saliva, and her fingers get tangled as she runs a hand through his greasy green hair. Her heart is thumping, swelling. She realizes how much she misses him. How glad she is to see him. Joy blooms. Jess is laughing, the noise swallowed by her Ace of Knaves.

His tongue leaving wet trails down her neck, the Joker begins to tug at her clothing. Her stockings are rolled down to her calves, her heels kicked off, and he pulls at her dress with delirious passion. Jess's arm gets caught in her sleeve as he is ripping it away, and does not loosen even as he gives two or three impatient tugs. It is stuck tight, twisted in a loop of fabric. She feels her fingers bend painfully as he pulls again, and again, and now she's gasping in pain. He grunts and takes her arm, rips the fabric in two. Her arm is twisted behind her back, and her cry of pain seems to infuriate him. He twists harder, and she can feel tendons snap even as his tongue slides across her cheek.

Panic follows pain. Jess struggles and his grasp tightens. He wraps her in a rough embrace, trying to kiss her even as she turns away.

Letting go briefly, the Joker spins her around and pulls her backwards against him. He cups her chin roughly and brings her lips to his for a deep kiss, before withdrawing a long shard of mirror from an inner pocket of his coat. He holds it out before them so it reflects them - Jess rumpled and frightened, the clown highly amused. He starts to giggle as she starts to gasp, bringing the jagged glass closer to their faces. Their reflections blur.

The Joker presses the tip of the shard into her throat, reaching down to force her hand to hold it there. The sharp edges slice through the skin on her palm as he grips her hand over it, and rivers of crimson trickle down her arm.

"It's me or you," he rasps into her ear. "Or me _and_ you." The glass pricks her throat, stealing her breath, drawing a small well of blood at the tip. He will kill her. He will kill her if she does not act.

A burst of anger rushes through her, fueling strength. She grips the shard harder, digging the sharp edges deeply into her palm, and wrests it from the Joker. Jerking away from him, she turns and haphazardly slices upwards. The shard of glass strokes along his cheek, leaving a bloody gash, exposing muscle. But even as the cut is formed, his face changes - lengthening, growing tan.

A moment before plunging the jagged mirror into his chest, Jess sees that her victim is Blake.

His hand sweeps her face tenderly for a long moment, his mouth forming her name, the scar over his eye crisscrossed with the gash she just gave him. Then he falls away, burning into black ash...

* * *

Jess woke up in a cold sweat. She had tears leaking from her eyes, and as she sucked in a breath she was somehow disappointed to find that the air did not smell like the Joker. Why should it, anyway? She was almost angry at herself. Grief and loss remained, but she couldn't remember the dream. It had been vivid enough to invoke tears, and in half an instant it was gone.

Well. Such was life.

Sometimes this happened. Sometimes she woke up missing the Joker, feeling too hollow for anger. She'd lay in bed as though a weight was on her chest, wishing he was beside her. Wishing she could feel his long thin fingers tapping against her hips or tugging at her hair. Sometimes she couldn't get out of bed on days like that.

But the fury returned after a while. It always did, which was a comforting thing. Sooner or later, her mind would inevitably turn towards the ways he did her wrong, and a bitter taste would creep into her throat. She'd rise and allow herself to hate him. Of late, she'd been purposely skipping the whole introspective, melancholy process and focusing immediately on every little thing he'd done to hurt her.

He'd cut her. He'd humiliated her. He'd kidnapped her. He'd frightened her. He'd betrayed her. He'd lied to her. He'd tried to kill her. He'd used her. He'd changed her.

He'd left her. That was his most serious crime.

God, how fucked up was that?

Already in a bad mood, Jess slumped downstairs in sweat pants and a tank top. She was greeted with a cup of coffee by Jackson in the kitchen, who's lengthening hair was pulled back today in a short ponytail.

It had been four days since they'd watched part of _The Dark Knight_, and none of them had spoken a word about it. The DVD had mysteriously disappeared, which was good - Jess would have thrown it away had she come across it in the house. She'd spent her time since mostly alone, and so had the boys, each locked in their own rooms, only coming out to use the bathroom or get food.

But now Jackson was thumping around the kitchen, and Billy had knocked on her door last night to wish her sweet dreams. As long as they didn't have to talk about what they'd watched, Jess figured she could use the comfort of familiar friends.

"Morning, princess," Jackson said as he handed her the coffee. A jolt went through Jess at that nickname - it was what Blake had always called her. She frowned. Why did he spring to mind? She hadn't exactly been feeling kindly towards Blake as of late; his final betrayal and those horrible things he'd said to her on her last night in Gotham still brought on rushes of impotent fury. But at Jackson's use of the fond nickname, tender feelings rushed back. Blake had always been there for her in Gotham. He ran deep, and he had seemed to love her.

She'd never see him again. Why wasn't he here? Why had Billy found her in that elevator shaft, and not Blake? A deep pit opened in her stomach and her breath caught in her throat. Jackson regarded her warily.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Coffee's hot," Jess replied, though she hadn't yet tasted it. Her face was prickling, as though tears might start flowing any minute. God fucking dammit. She had to get out of this kitchen. Turning, she beat a hasty retreat.

"Hey, wait," Jackson called. Closing her eyes and halting in the doorway, Jess took a deep breath, meant to both stave off irritation and prevent the gathering tears. There must have been tension in her face when she turned back to face him, because Jackson hesitated. Raising her eyebrows, she made herself smile. Jackson relaxed.

"Uh, I was wondering..." he began, scratching the base of his ponytail. "You mentioned a few weeks ago that you wouldn't mind, uh..." He broke off again, and Jess furrowed her eyebrows, wondering what the hell he was gearing up to ask. She let him hesitate and shuffle for a few more seconds before she set her coffee on the counter and her hands firmly on her hips.

"What is it, Jackson?"

"Okay," Jackson said, striding over and placing a hand on her shoulder. He led her to the couch and sat down beside her. _Uh oh_, thought Jess. _How bad is this going to be? _"You remember when you mentioned you wouldn't mind helping out with the, uh, business? But I said don't worry about it?" Jess remembered. In reality, his precise words had been "You clean my house, you stay for free."

"What do you want me to do?" Jess asked.

"I wouldn't ask otherwise," Jackson said. "But I don't know any girl better for the job."

"Cut to the chase." Jess wondered if the job specifically needed a woman. The prospect was simultaneously flattering and obnoxious. Jackson grinned at her.

"Okay, so there's this grow-op I know of, run by this real piece of shit, Andy. For a while they lived in Shoreline, so I didn't give a shit, but now they've moved to the neighborhood. They're taking all my pot business, Jess, undercutting my prices, spreading shit about my product. And I don't know how familiar you are with our finances, but weed is, like, a _huge_ part of our monthly intake. Problem is, their shit is _chronic_, even though it's home grown. So their customers are usually return, and a lot of times they're _mine_."

"Bastard should go down," Jess said. "Where do I come in?"

Jackson's smile was sheepish yet sly. "Andy's got a weakness for chicks, especially beautiful blonds." Jess rolled her eyes at the empty flattery. He just wanted her to agree to this scheme.

"I'm not sleeping with him."

"You don't have to," Jackson said, leaning forward intently. "Just flirt a little. Keep him distracted for an hour - just one hour - and Billy and I will do the rest."

"Wait, wait, wait," Jess said, throwing up her hands. "You don't actually want me to do anything important? Just flash some cleavage and giggle? What the fuck will that accomplish?"

"We're gonna destroy his crop," Jackson said. "He doesn't know anything about me, but I got this friend who works with him. Guy talks too much when he's drunk, and I recently found out it's almost budding time for Andy. I also found out he grows in the basement of his own house. This one crop should keep him in business for the next six months, but we're gonna get to it before it buds. Enough acid in that soil, the plants will whither in a day."

Jess's heart jumped at the idea. After Jackson had explained a few more details, she was willing and revved to go. She grinned widely. This was _beautiful_. Poetic, almost. Not only would it rid them of a pain in their ass, but it would yield some serious profit.

"When do we do this?" she asked.

"Two nights from now," he replied. "You up for it?"

"Oh yeah."

* * *

Two more nights.

Was he seriously up for this?

Blake swept a gloved hand over the dark slime in his hair, staring with no lack of melancholy into the bathroom mirror. He hadn't been brunet since he was twelve years old and started bleaching. White blond was his signature, his norm. He felt plain like this, ugly, especially with the scuff of beard working its way over his jaw and the pale scar slashed across his eye.

The things you do for the Joker.

"Man, you look different," Laurence said, appearing in the bathroom doorway. Blake sneered at his reflection and ran the runny brown hair dye along a blond tip.

"That's kinda the point." Blake picked up the false, thick rimmed glasses on the sink and placed them on his nose. Even with dark dye still in his hair, the effect was startling. He turned towards Laurence and tried to look like a haughty douche bag.

Laurence snorted. "What's up, doc?" he asked.

"Vhere is ze psych ward?" Blake asked, in an outrageous German accent. "My patients need zeir medications." Laurence laughed loudly.

"You might just want to keep your mouth shut for the duration of your visit," he advised. Smirking, Blake flipped him off. But when he turned back to the mirror, his grin died. He was nervous about this - nervous in a way he hadn't been for years. This wasn't usual. This wasn't some kind of get-in-get-out. This was tricky and personal. What he was going to do involved quick wits, tranquility and deception. It was something the Joker would be better suited for.

Laurence noticed how drawn his face was, and how pale. He put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll be in the back seat, man," he said. "You're not alone in this." Blake managed a small smile at him.

"I just wish I didn't have to dye my hair."

Throughout the night, he kept trying to tell himself that everything would go smoothly. And shit, maybe it would. There weren't too many steps involved, but there was a lot of room for error. And it was his job to make sure that error stayed at a minimum.

His duffel bag was packed with a bolt cutter, a wire cutter, a bag of thermite (in case the former two instruments proved fucking useless), a blow torch (to light the thermite), a stop watch synchronized with old Fred's, a prepaid cell phone with only Fred's number, a hand gun, a shotgun, a flashlight, five yards of rope and a lab coat. The heft of it was comforting across his shoulders. As though the right tools would ensure success.

They wouldn't, he knew. But it was easier to think that it gave him a boost.

He wondered whether Hugo Strange would put up much of a fight. His general idea of doctors and psychiatrists were that they tended to be pussies, used to mental power, not physical. And with Laurence's brawn combined with Blake's, he was fairly sure they could take him down.

But what if the old doc had a knife? A gun? Even some fucking mace? What if he was wide awake at 2 am, as opposed to half-asleep (the best case scenario)? What if he saw their faces? What if he got loose and ran for help before the job was done? What if Fred got caught and the whole thing was a waste of time anyway?

Blake didn't like all the outside variables, but the Joker seemed to think this would work. And, despite everything, he trusted his boss's opinion.

He just wished he could talk to him personally.

Watching brown dye swirl down the drain, Blake focused on breathing deeply and letting the shower's hot water relieve the tension in his back. It wouldn't do to stay up half the night dreading tomorrow. When he left the bathroom with his new brown hair and his new scruffy beard, he decided to smoke a joint and try to hit the hay.

In forty eight hours, he'd either be very successful or very incarcerated. Or very dead.

But he tried not to think of it like that.

* * *

**Review PLEASE!  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Happy Day After Halloween! I hope you all had as good a yesterday as I did!**

**To celebrate my favorite holiday, here's chapter 4. Please review! I'd really like to know how you feel about what I'm doing here.**

* * *

When the van was loaded and darkness fell over the city, Billy stopped to smoke a cigarette. _He'd_ considered them ready for the last half hour, but Jackson was still fumbling around, making changes and running back and forth from the house with anything he thought might come in handy. Like a chicken with its head cut off. He was nervous about doing this on his own turf, with so much room for error. Billy felt very mild, however, filled with a strange and wonderful tranquility. So if they got caught, then what? That slimy drug dealer, Andy, would never call the cops on his own op.

"The fuck is Jess?" Jackson asked him once he decided they had everything. He glanced at his watch. With a shrug, Billy looked up to the light in her bedroom window, and smiled when it was flicked off.

"Looks like she's coming down." Billy didn't think they needed Jess in on this, but Jackson was adamant about the distraction portion of the plan. Apparently Andy was a paranoid guy, befitting his plant of choice, but he was known to let girls lower his defenses. Well shit, if that was all it took, the fucker deserved what he had coming.

When Jess exited the house Billy had to look twice, bathed as she was in the flattering glow of the porch light. She was beautiful. He forgot that, more often than not. Usually she invoked a vague disgust, tinged with pity and anger. But tonight she'd outdone herself, dressed in a tiny black dress and purple heels, offset by straight pale hair and bright red lips. Her almond shaped eyes were made up like a pinup girl, making her lashes look huge. Rarely did he see her put this much effort into her physical appearance, but goddamn if the girl didn't clean up well.

Jackson noticed, too. "Holy fuck," he muttered to Billy as she approached. "We live with that."

"Shut up," Billy replied, jabbing him with his elbow. His partner's wolfish grin didn't quit, however, and Billy had to resign himself to the possibility that his roommates might want to sleep together. He couldn't think of a more utterly irritating scenario.

"Ready?" Jess asked bracingly when she'd reached them, unaware of their reaction to her.

"_You_ sure as hell are," Jackson replied, eyeing her appreciatively. Jess threw him a weird look. Okay, good, they wouldn't sleep together.

She glanced down pointedly at the masks they each held and frowned but said nothing. Billy and Jackson were dressed in black tonight, and armed with the white and green clown masks they'd received in Gotham. It seemed appropriate, somehow fulfilling, very empowering. Billy in his black hoodie and Jackson in his leather jacket. Their uniforms.

Jess drove the van, while the men crouched in the back. Jackson went over the plan vocally two more times on the ride over, until they both had it burned in their brains. For the first time, Billy started feeling the nervous energy his partner had been wrapped up in. His fingers started tapping, his leg bouncing restlessly, his stomach becoming a painful pit of anxiety. There was the excitement, of course, the promise of money and solved problems and power. The rush of doing the dangerous. But sometimes adrenaline took on an edge of fear.

They parked in the alley behind Andy's little house, with its slanted gutter and cluttered back patio. The back of the van was not fifteen feet from the door - as they'd planned it - and Jackson and Billy left the van doors open when they climbed out. Jess met them around the side, a flush in her cheeks.

"Two minutes," Jackson whispered to her, "and we're opening the storm doors to the basement. We'll keep as quiet as we can, but if he hears something, you make sure he doesn't come down."

"Got it," Jess said, her voice steady. Jackson glanced at Billy bracingly, and they donned their clown masks. The blond turned and strode confidently around the house to the front door, a little wiggle in her hips, which neither man could help but watch.

"Damn," Jackson muttered once more. "I'd forgotten _that_ Jesster."

"Yeah, well," Billy said, tossing his black duffel to the ground and going on his haunches to unzip it. "Bruises and sweatpants don't make for the best look. Too bad she likes psychos." He couldn't keep the bitterness from his tone, nor the sneer from his masked face. Jackson said nothing to that, but started pulling on the black leather gloves Billy tossed him, and reached into the van to lift out four containers, a gallon each, of hydrobromic acid. HBr + H2O. A proton, an ion and a water molecule in perfect, destructive sync. Joker would like that. This shit could burn skin, so they both assumed it would be pretty effective on plants known for their delicate temperament.

After counting down the minutes, Billy headed to the storm doors. Jess hadn't come back, so she was inside the house, hopefully laughing and flirting very loudly.

As if in response to this thought, a gale of laughter floated through an open window, male and female, and he heard Jess's giggling chatter. He smiled under the mask and bent down with lock picks in hand to work at the rusty iron padlock on the chain around the cellar handles.

Picking locks was astonishingly easy, a fact few people knew. Once you knew what to do, it took very little skill to actually do it. But people looked at you like you were a fucking boss if you showed them you could. So he usually kept the simplicity secret.

After a moment the padlock fell away, and Billy lifted up one door to stare down into the blackness beyond.

One of the amazing gadgets Jackson had picked up with their fuck-loads-of-money were two basic pairs of night vision goggles, which the men affixed over their masks. Billy grinned at his partner in crime (though he couldn't see it under the plastic clown face). They looked like terrifying loony splinter cells infiltrating an enemy base.

The plants were in the night-phase of their daily cycle, and they glowed green through the goggles. There were twenty three of them, each around five feet tall, each planted in its own white tub and arranged in neat rows under huge grow lights. The smell was dank, in both senses of the word, soil and pungent marijuana clouding thick in the air. The plants were just starting to bud, furry and beautiful, and each man chose a large favorite to set aside. The rest, however, were about to be destroyed.

"We'll probably need more acid," Billy said, and Jackson immediately retreated to grab a few more containers from the van. Billy, meanwhile, went about ripping the stalks from their dirt and throwing them on the grown, plucking a few buds here and there. When Jackson returned, they started going about the real work.

In the end, they used up seven gallons of hydrobromic acid, poured copiously into the soil at the base of each sticky stalk. Probably way more than necessary, but better safe than sorry. The plants didn't stand a chance.

Now it smelled like acid and rot, chokingly thick. Jackson and Billy each grabbed a plant in its little soil tub-remarkably heavy-and got the fuck out of the basement, crossing the yard in darkness and silence to load them into the back of the van. A bit of free income. A bonus for a job well done.

They closed the heavy white doors and ripped off their masks, grinning freely now that getaway was imminent. Jackson let loose a high pitched whistle, the signal that Jess should head back to the van.

In the ringing silence that followed, a dog started to growl.

* * *

"This isn't conspicuous at all," Blake said sarcastically when Laurence popped the trunk door of the little hatchback outside the Taco Bell where he worked nights. He climbed into the rear, shut himself inside, and knelt back there while Blake started the car. Blake glanced to the rearview just in time to see Laurence flip him the bird.

"No one's here," he said, waving at the darkened fast food restaurant. "I closed up by myself."

"That's fucking initiative," replied Blake. He was feeling edgy, a little mean. That was good. Mean was good. Laurence ignored him.

"So where's this guy gonna be?" he asked, and Blake quickly checked the itinerary as he pulled out of the parking lot. Tom, one of the Twenty he was in touch with, was a bit of a genius when it came to computers, and he'd said hacking the good doctor's email account had been a piece of cake. As the Joker had expected, Strange's plane tickets had been bought online, the confirmation sent to his email, so they had the arrival time for his red eye flight from San Fransisco.

Apparently Doctor Hugo Strange had been asked by Jeremiah Arkham last month if he would consider transferring to Gotham's asylum, in the wake of another psychiatrist's retirement. And, as the two former colleagues were good friends and Arkham was known for its employee benefits and state of the art research facilities, Strange agreed to visit and decide. His identification and arrival would provide perfect means to get past Arkham's tall wrought iron gates without being detected.

"His plane is landing in ten minutes," Blake said. "So we pick him up from the airport. He's renting a car. I've, uh, arranged for it to be this one."

The abundance of the boss's connections throughout Gotham continued to astound Blake, as did this city's profound degeneracy. The guy who owned the rental place by the airport was a money launderer, and he happened to agree with the way the clown ran things (and placed stacks of cash in his hands). It only took a phone call, and Dr. Strange's compensating-for-something sports car had been changed to a four door hatchback with a crook in the trunk.

In fifteen minutes they were at Mickey's Rent-A-Car, and Blake headed in to see if the good doctor had come by yet. Mickey, a suave yet unalterably common man, informed him that his plane had arrived late, and advised that he hide in the bushes until Strange was unlocking his new car.

Everything was going off without a hitch so far, Blake reflected as he knelt in the dirt behind a shrubbery a yard from the parking lot. But he couldn't let himself breathe, not yet. Not until the boss was sprung and Arkham's gates were disappearing behind them. Things had a way of getting extremely fucked up, even when plans were laid this carefully. _Especially_ when plans were laid this carefully. The best made plans of mice and men aft gang agley. Scottish proverb. The boss had taught him that.

Blake's first glimpse of Hugo Strange as he walked briskly from the terminal towards Mickey's made him sigh in relief. Balding and bespectacled, the doctor was tall but very thin. Frail looking. Blake rubbed his own tricep, over the definition there, flexed to feel the muscles bunch under his hand. This guy would be easy, he told himself. Those glasses would hurt when he slammed his face into the ground, too.

Strange was in there a long time, doubtlessly arguing with Mickey about the vehicle exchange. His penis was big, goddammit! No way would a guy with a penis his size drive a four door hatchback!

In the end, however grudgingly, the doctor slumped out of the office with keys in hand. Keys. Careful of those. Don't let him swipe at your face. The best laid plans of mice and men.

The doctor turned to flip the bird at Mickey's shop, then headed towards the car. Blake's heart started pumping, his adrenaline buzzing through his dyed brown skull. He stood, felt the gun in the waistband of his jeans, and smiled.

Strange was at the car now, fumbling with the keys in the dark. Blake left his hiding place and strode up behind him while the doctor was still cursing in German.

WHAM! His nose made a sickening crunch as Blake slammed it into the roof of the car. Strange let loose a strangled gargle, sliding down against the door of the car as his legs gave out. Saying not a word, Blake lifted him forcibly under the arm pits and forced his wrists into handcuffs. By then, the doctor was recovering from his shock, trembling uncontrollably, barking panicked _what? who?'_s and twisting to catch a glimpse of his assailant, which Blake avoided. Blood was gushing from his broken nose, staining his impeccably pressed dress shirt. Blake reached around and snapped off the ID badge Strange had pinned to his breast pocket, slipping it into his jeans so it wouldn't get blood on it, too.

He grabbed his gun and forced it against the doctor's temple, which stopped the alarmed protests and half-words pretty quick. The trembling continued though, getting more violent.

"Keep quiet, keep still, and you might get out of this alive," he told him as Laurence popped the locks from the inside and pushed open the back door. Strange was thrown unceremoniously into the back seat, face first with his hands behind his back, so roughly he lost his breath. But he was being cooperative. Probably out of sheer terror.

With Laurence's gun to the back of his head and Blake behind the wheel, the doctor was veritably kidnapped. They sped out of the parking lot and onto the highway, north towards Arkham Asylum.

"Where - where are you taking me?" the doctor asked from the back seat. His German accent was thickened with fear, but probably quite pronounced anyway. Blake threw a glance towards his partner in the rear-view.

"Gag him," he said, and Laurence dutifully stuffed a sock into the doctor's bloody mouth and wrapped it in place with duct tape. "Blindfold, too." Another sock obscured Strange's vision, so he set about pathetically mumbling and whimpering.

"Jesus," said Laurence, delivering a blow to the back of Strange's head. "Shut the fuck up." Their captive's body went limp and a quiet groan escaped in the wake of the pistol whip. But they heard no more from Doctor Strange that night. They left him unconscious along a seldom-traveled stretch of highway, laying in the dust at the side of the road.

In fifteen minutes, the foreboding crags of Arkham Asylum rose from the hill before them, deep black against a star pricked sky. Blake studied the gates as they got closer - even more intimidating than he'd imagined. Tall, black wrought iron, tipped with spikes and coiled with barbed wire. Each post was at least a solid two inches across, set three inches apart, and digging six feet into the earth below. No way of getting over, under or between.

But hey, Blake thought as he checked his appearance in the mirror and straightened Strange's ID on his button up, we've got that part taken care of. _I fucking hope_.

Huge spotlights at the top of the gates illuminated the guardhouse as they pulled into the dirt courtyard; Blake could see the shadow of the lone security man pacing back and forth inside. He reached down to feel his gun again, drawing comfort from it even though it wouldn't be used, and once more glanced in the mirror as he slid glasses onto his nose. Then, slowly and surely, he pulled up to the grounds entrance.

"Identification," the guard said, strolling out of the gatehouse with a dubiously curious expression. The night of this scheme had been carefully chosen - it was the first shift of this new security guard, Lyle Bolton, who had been brought on after his predecessor's murder at the hands of a patient.

"Doctor Hugo Strange," Blake said in the best German accent he could muster, and handed Bolton the ID. He noticed, as the guard took it, that a drop of blood had smeared along its backside. Lyle neglected to see it, but he studied the ID for a long time - no picture, thank Jesus - looking distinctly suspicious. Blake's fingers curled around the handle of his gun.

"We weren't expecting you until tomorrow, Doctor Strange," he said finally, handing the card back to Blake. Blake shut his eyes in annoyance, realizing he'd have to talk himself into the grounds.

"Jeremiah promised me a room in ze asylum," he said. How would this fucking accent fool anyone? "I would like to experience ze comforts of my new possible home. Also," he grinned, "it saves me a hotel fee." Against all odds, Bolton grinned back. What an idiot.

"Sure, I get it," he said. "No problem. I'll just confirm with the guys upstairs and we can let you in." That wouldn't be good. The lie would be revealed in ten seconds and he'd have armed men on his ass before crossing the threshold.

"I'm quite tired," Blake said, throwing out a gloved hand to stop Bolton from reaching for his walkie. His other hand tightened on the gun handle. "I'm sure it will be alright if I..."

"It'll only take a sec," Bolton replied amiably, taking the walkie from its holster. Blake sighed. He understood what needed to happen, but that didn't make it easy.

There was a long, terrible moment, after Blake aimed the gun, when their eyes met. A victim and his unwilling killer. The guard's hand clenched weakly at his radio, and Blake's decision was made.

The silenced bullet ripped through Lyle Bolton's skull in half a second, and he was on the ground in another, spasming as blood began to pool around his head. Blake put his gun away again, staring at the body with disappointment. He hadn't wanted to do that. He'd wanted to let this guy go home to his girlfriend or his wife, maybe even a kid or two. He'd wanted this guy to be a lazy idiot.

He was sorry. That was what separated guys like him from guys like the Joker. No matter the things he did or the number of corpses he made, the faces of his victims stayed in Blake's mind. You didn't really desensitize from that. Taking lives was easier by far than forgetting them. And by the way, twelve. To this date, he'd killed twelve people. It had been eleven, now it was twelve. Number of people he'd hurt, he'd lost count, but not the murders. He'd never lose count of those. He'd never forget the details of their faces. They even haunted him at night sometimes.

Guys like the Joker, they didn't get that. They did whatever they wanted without the uselessness of guilt hanging over them. It made them subhuman, yeah, but it also kind of elevated them above. Like some deity, something more than a person. The boss had called it enlightenment. In the deepest, blackest corners of his mind - where he kept his hatred, his frustrated lust, his id - Blake almost envied guys like the Joker. To be that unhindered, especially in doing what you had to do...

Then again, what was he thinking? There were no guys like the Joker.

Laurence was out of the car and in the guardhouse. He must have pressed the right button or flipped the right switch, because soon the gate was opening ahead of them, slowly, into darkness.

As Blake steered past Lyle Bolton's body and onto Arkham grounds, he heard the guard's radio buzz to life.

"Base to units. Come in, units. 2400 check. Please respond."

Lyle, of course, wouldn't answer. And if anyone came down to check, the body would be pretty conspicuous. Blake sped up, deeper into the darkness surrounding the high stone building. Their time limit might have just gotten a lot shorter. His dyed hair and itchy beard had proven wastes of time. And he'd killed someone he hadn't wanted to. But, as you had to, as you learned to, he suppressed the sinking in his gut and focused on doing what they were here to do.

Best laid plans and all that.

* * *

Staring out the rain streaked windowpane and picking at her nails, Jess decided to give up on ever feeling normal.

It was undue stress, and it certainly wasn't helping anything. She found herself lately, time and again, comparing the way she felt and lived now to the way it used to be. How she used to be able to smile at strangers, and watch mindless cartoons, and enjoy music that made her want to cry. How she used to wear pink and green and electric blue. How she used to shout and shop and run and read. How she used to miss her mother and think about her friends.

It was hard, now, to remember a feeling of happiness back then. She was sure she'd had it, though, or at least had what she'd mistaken for happiness. That was, comfort. Ease of life. Hilarity.

Gotham had shown her a new kind of happiness. For what was bliss if not the rush of adrenaline, the warmth of camaraderie, the freedom to do what you wanted, when you wanted? The freedom of taking and faking and making love. What was bliss if not the taste of greasepaint and the smell of gasoline?

She'd fought for her life, lost everything she knew was real, and started out new. But that had been ripped away, too, before she was halfway from her cocoon. She'd spent the last month crawling out of it, flexing gossamer wings in the open air, white as larvae and glistening. But now her wings seemed to be gaining color, and strength. Was she starting to rediscover herself?

And as a woman remade, what room did she have for those old emotions and actions? Why should she feel a sense of empathy or guilt?

You can't pick up the pieces of an old life. You can't move forward when you can never go back.

You just can't.

It made it easier to decide once and for all that she was not who she'd been. So fuck the old values. They meant nothing now.

Andy was precisely as greasy as she'd been led to believe, tall and bony, with unruly black hair and a horrible goatee. He smelled like body odor, alcohol and, of course, obscene amounts of weed. He was also a complete imbecile, one who laughed loudly at his own jokes and thought he was the utmost expert on everything.

Nothing worse than an idiot who thought he was clever.

It made it easy to want to destroy him.

The way he'd stared at her when she'd entered his home made her scalp shrink and bile rise, but she'd forced her face into a mask. A pretty, vapid, horny mask.

"I've been drinking," she'd giggled at him first thing, adopting a stereotypical sorority girl inflection. Like omg noway I loooooove Panty Droppers.

"Nothing I like more than a pretty girl who's been drinking," Andy had oozed in reply. And she laughed like omg that was the funniest fucking thing she'd ever heard.

Jess had "accidentally" bumped into him last night at a bar, their introduction facilitated by the man who worked for Andy and bought coke from Jackson. She'd introduced herself as Claire, and procured his number with the understanding that she was always to ask before coming to pick up. She never stopped by unannounced for business, never. And then, squeezing her ass, he'd said, "But if it's for something else, you can drop by any time."

The more he drank at the bar, the pushier he'd gotten - groping and whispering and trying to flirt. In accordance with Jackson's plan, Jess had denied him at every turn, but always with a flirtatious smile. "He'll want it even more if he can't get it right away," Jackson had told her before leaving her at the pub. Andy didn't know Jackson or Billy, and they wanted to keep it that way. Instead, she'd been introduced as someone with mutual friends.

It hadn't been difficult, to tell the truth, to flirt and lie her way into this group.

People were kind of easy like that.

Andy came up behind her, distracting her from the rain, and wrapped his arms around her waist. He handed her a pipe loaded with weed. It was their second one of the night - she'd already been there ten minutes. Surely that was enough time for the boys to do what they were here to.

"So," Andy said over her shoulder, into her ear, breathing too heavily, "what do you want to do?"

Jesus fucking Christ she hadn't been _that_ heavy on the flirting. This guy couldn't keep it in his pants.

She chuckled throatily, sex in every reverberation, and leaned back against his lanky frame. He felt slimy, and smelled as though he rarely washed.

At that moment, a shrill whistle wafted through the window she'd opened. Her signal.

"Actually, I gotta get going," she said. "It's my bestie's birthday party." She handed the pipe back and stuffed her baggie of green into the purse she was carrying. Andy made a distinct noise of disappointment and attempted to hold her closer, but she broke away.

"I'll see you soon though," she said, heading for the front door. He followed close, fingers brushing against her hips, her ass.

"You better," he replied. She stopped at the door and turned to face him, knowing at least a hug was expected. As she reached up to sling her arms around his neck, a dog started barking furiously from the back.

Andy turned to look towards the kitchen door.

Their informant had told them about this. Apparently the neighbor was Andy's close friend, and he had a large doberman that would patrol both houses during they day.

They usually kept him in at night though. Usually.

Jess had no idea why she hadn't seen this coming. Chaos dictated life. It was nearly impossible for a plan to go off without a hitch. You had to roll with the punches.

So, resigned, Jess rolled.

She grabbed Andy's face and turned his head to meet his lips passionately. He responded with unmediated enthusiasm, too much tongue, and the most direct pair of hands she'd ever had the misfortune of experiencing. The dog barked three more times, then yelped and was silent. A large car started up and sped away.

She wrenched away from Andy, wanting to gag at the wet look he gave her, but smiled provocatively instead and blew a kiss good bye.

After checking to make sure the men had, indeed, left with the van, and seeing no sign of any dog, Jess walked jauntily towards the bus stop. That had been so easy, it was almost sad. She couldn't believe that less than ten minutes of lying and distracting could reap such enormous benefits. Then again, of course it could. That was crime. That was why people did it. _That_ was why you wanted to get good at lying, cheating, taking. And why not? Guilt? _Guilt_? There were no laws, no truths. So, conversely, that meant there were no lies. What use was _guilt_?

Who were the victims? Sheeple she wanted to punch on a regular basis anyway, for the size of their little lemming minds. Or big fat cat corporations who didn't even suffer anyway. _I'm sorry, does my total profit come at a mild inconvenience to you? Maybe you should reexamine your stupid little life._ Providing punishment, reaping reward. A beautiful justice, even better given its societal perversion, its twisting of norms. A vigilante disciplining the everyday blue collar villain. After all, the only true crime was stupidity.

Andy, he was stupid. Alex, her one true kill, he'd been stupid too. That was the price you paid.

Creative thinking, intelligence, guiltlessness. That's what got you places. Take the Joker. He'd gotten what he wanted. To the very last, he'd gotten exactly what he wanted.

It took her a while to figure out why she was smiling. But when she realized, she smiled harder, flooded with relief.

Because, for the first time in a long time, Jess felt utterly fantastic.

* * *

He'd thought , at the beginning of his incarceration, that the worst thing about being behind bars was the monotony. The endless day-to-day. The routine of it. The lack of any variety or stimulation. But as midnight crept closer and Fred disappeared to the basement, the Joker decided something else was worse: even as things were happening right under your nose, you couldn't join in on the fun.

Soon, he had to tell himself. Soon. A month in Arkham Asylum had been more than substantial, and tonight was the night. Freddy had just been whispering into his ear, about how Blakey had infiltrated the grounds and was headed now to the circuit board. And the handyman would take care of the generators in the basement, plunging the asylum into a blackout sure to last at least an hour. There was nothing for the Joker to do but sit back and wait to be free.

And that was the worst part.

His palms itched. His legs twitched and jumped. He couldn't stay still, couldn't stop running his tongue along the slick, bumpy scars on the insides of his cheeks. He paced restlessly, counting the steps until that bored him, then contented himself with scraping his nails along the glass window. He wanted to taste the night air again, feel the rain against his face, smell the smoke and the smog and the blood of Gotham. He wanted to wire a bomb, feel the heat of the explosion behind him. Wanted to see stars and light fires and hold a knife again. Wanted to trace a long line up one of Jesster's thighs. Wanted to watch as the life left Ruth Adams' eyes.

Zsasz was wheezing in his sleep, an ugly, pitiful sound. He'd kill Zsasz one day, the Joker promised himself. He'd stab each of his precious little tally marks and ask him if he liked it.

Jobs just weren't the same when you only gave the orders. The Joker much preferred to do the dirty work, too. Instead of energized and delirious, he simply felt impatient. He couldn't wait to get a knife back in his hand and have a bit of fun for once.

At that moment, the lights buzzed, flickered, brightened and popped into darkness. Blake had done his job on the electrical box.

Instant pandemonium. The Joker stood in the pitch black, laughing as screams rose from every corner of the building. People shrieking, heavy doors sliding open, the sounds of murder and triumph and insanity. The electronic locks fitted in every wing of the building had failed, popped open. The patients of Arkham were loose, for the second time in three years. Madness was flooding the streets again.

"Just like it should be," the Joker said to himself, giggling.

His own door, as the rest of the doors in the high security ward, had not been unlocked by a simple power outage. These had state of the art magnetic bolts on their own circuit, unlocked only by fingerprint scan. But Freddy had that covered.

Croc was slamming on his glass with one huge scaly fist, clearly having deduced that the other patients were free. Zsasz slithered up to his own window and pressed his bony face against it, whispering, "Let me out. Let me out." Calendar Man was singing the Twelve Days of Christmas.

The security men at either end of the hall had flicked on their flashlights, and they were screaming at the inmates to keep it down. Both were highly flustered, and the young one yelled to the old man that he was going down to help in the B Wing. "These fuckers still have locks on them. They'll be fine!"

It just went to show that, when things didn't go according to plan, people stopped thinking.

And so they were left, four psychotic murderers in the dark with a frail old man and his gun. The iron doors between them wouldn't be an issue for long.

It took five excruciating minutes for Fred to get back upstairs. In that time, the guard had taken to strolling down the hall with his flashlight, back and forth and back and forth. The Joker watched the hypnotic beam bounce by nine times before there was a scuffle at the end of the hall and it went out.

The Joker grinned. Fred did that right, at least. He vaguely mourned not getting to kill the guard himself, but it was all a means to the same end.

The janitor was sweaty and wheezing when he showed up at the Joker's window with two glow sticks clenched in his palm. At once, the Joker saw the issue.

"Uh, Fred," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "did you forget something?" Fred got visibly paler, even in the dim light. He started stammering, ran a bloodstained hand over his excuse for hair, unable to get more than a syllable or two together at a time. Growling, the Joker slammed a gloved hand against the window to shut him up. "Where's _Winslow_?" he demanded.

The handyman was shaking as he told his boss the bad news. Winslow the orderly, the one with the fingerprint necessary to open this door, had apparently fled the grounds as soon as the blackout was in session. It probably hadn't been hard to put together the pieces - the Joker had orchestrated this, everyone surely knew by now. Who else would it be? Who else in this flea infested shit hole had the imagination or ambition?

"One finger," the Joker muttered, chewing at his scars and resuming his pacing. "I just needed one finger, Freddy."

"Couldn't find him, boss," Fred said. "What do we do?" The Joker glanced at the digital wristwatch on Fred's arm, adding its glow to the darkness. They had about thirty minutes until reillumination. Plenty of time, assuming he wasn't working with complete imbeciles. Which was turning out to be unlikely. But he had an ace in the hole. You always had an ace in the hole. It was a fundamental law of the universe that things always went towards entropy. And what was entropy, if not chaos? The trick was to turn that to your advantage.

"Get Blake up here," he snapped. "Now. I need his, uh, brawn."

Fred flipped open his prepaid cellphone and hit the number. He informed Blake quickly of the issue, and told him to race up to the wing. That would take some doing. Even armed as he was with the knowledge of the building's layout, people might notice the interloper. But if he was still wearing his lab coat - and he'd _better_ be - he might attract less attention. Without the contents of Blake's duffle bag, the Joker would have to start getting real creative.

After Fred hung up, he said, "He wanted me to say he's got this, boss. And that he's, like, looking forward to the reunion." The Joker found himself halfway between a smirk and a sneer at Blake's sarcastic sentimentality. He smacked his lips and didn't reply.

As usual, as he should have expected, Blake's performance turned out to be highly sufficient. When not three minutes passed before his tall, broad figure quickly rounded the corner, the Joker let loose a genuine smile and a cackle of satisfaction. Old Blakey. The Joker had forgotten how useful he was.

"Hey boss," Blake said, looking different somehow. Of course. He'd dyed his hair, grown a beard, like a good little lackey. Great at taking directions, old Blakey. Smart but loyal. Like a border collie. He was pale and energized, a light in the bright green eyes that the Joker understood. Jobs did that. To men like Blake, danger was an addiction, the adrenaline of the process worth the risk, even outweighing the reward. The Joker related to that sentiment.

"Finally, we get a little _proficiency_," the Joker said, glancing disparagingly at Fred as his right hand man wasted no time in digging the thermite from his black duffle. He slapped on protective face and arm gear, set the baggy on the door handle, right on top of the lock with its fancy fingerprint scanner, and set it on fire with a blowtorch.

The Joker hooted as sparks began to fly and the thermite went up in a burst of chemical reactivity. Thermite plus heat yields Al2O3 and iron in a fiery explosion at temperatures upwards of 5000 degrees Celsius. Steel melts around 1300 degrees. The lock dripped away as though it was candle wax, and in about five seconds a huge corroded hole had replaced the door handle.

In the ringing silence that followed the sparks and crackles of lit thermite, the Joker's cell door creaked open.

He stepped out, into the darkness he'd created, feeling the delirious pull of freedom. Closer now than ever. Now that it came to it, Fred looked terrified. Blake was more at ease, taking off his gloves and mask and repacking the bag swiftly. When he straightened and gave the Joker a triumphant smile, the clown smiled back.

The Joker held out a hand, and so easily it was like second nature, Blake placed his gun in it. It spoke of the strength of Blake's loyalty, to immediately and intuitively give up his only weapon. It was good. You couldn't trust anyone, but you could recognize dependability. Blake had a future in this, if he kept not-fucking up.

"Got a knife," said Blake, as if to underline that last thought. "If you'd rather." Without answering, the Joker turned toward Fred and fluidly raised the gun to eye level. A silenced bullet later, the man was twitching on the ground in a pool of his own fluids. The Joker took a deep breath, relishing it with every cell in his being. That felt _good_. Even with a gun. It would feel better later, but it felt good now too.

Blake had the good sense not to look anything but expectant at the blase murder. The Joker stepped over Fred's body and bent down to get the glow sticks in his still-clenched hand. As he was rising, he held his other palm to Blake. It took barely a second before he had a knife again.

The Joker slid the weapon from its sleeve. A bowie. Good for stabbing and slicing alike. He smacked his lips, satisfied. Zsasz was gabbing wildly at the escape, and the Joker stopped to turn back to him. Their eyes locked for a long moment, and then the Joker lunged forward and slammed the butt of his knife against the glass. Zsasz flinched away. The clown exploded into laughter, which turned into a crazed gibbering, meant to mock Zsasz's previous appeals for escape. Zsasz retaliated with a snarl and a very rude hand gesture. That only made the Joker laugh harder.

He didn't stab anyone on their journey to the front door, through unused hallways and a pitch black cafeteria, which was slightly depressing. When he'd pictured this night, he'd seen calamity in all corners. But the patients, though raising an awful clamour, seemed not to have found their way from their wards. He blew out his cheeks in irritation when they passed Ward B, its door unguarded but shut tight. Beyond it he heard screaming though, so it couldn't be a total loss.

In the end they waltzed out the huge front doors like they owned the place. It seemed, in this under-staffed, corrupt institution, all efforts had been focused on keeping the everyday, average crazies contained. No one had thought to check High Security, and no one had considered posting by the front entrance.

People really did make this job incredibly easy.

That first inhalation of the night into his lungs, slightly moist with rain, was sweeter than sugar. The great expanse of the yard around him, the lack of walls and straitjackets, the success of a job, the knowledge of what it signified. It meant freedom. It meant doing what he wanted, when he wanted. That was how you lived. Life behind those ominous stone walls, all order and healing and abuse, that was no life. That was just existence.

The Joker was alive again. And he already had some ideas about what to do with all his spare time.

Laurence had the car ready to go in the shadows at the corner of the building. The three men sped out the front gate, past the body of the security guard, as a misting rain began to bead on the windowsill. In the back seat, the Joker stuck his head out of the car to feel the air whoosh through his hair, fill his nose and throat.

As the highway stretched on and Gotham's lights filled the horizon, the Joker began to laugh.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello lovelies. Here's chapter five. It's a long one. I feel like this story is kind of off to a slow start, but I'm forming ideas and I'm excited about where it's going to go. **

**PLEASE REVIEW! I don't want to beg, but I really kind of need it...**

**Also, I really suggest you look up the song I quoted at the beginning of this chapter - it's absolutely beautiful and I think I might really be in love with the man who wrote it. He sings the male part (Terrence Zdunich).**

**Enjoy! And, just to be clear, Josh is a member of the Lucky Twenty.**

* * *

_He said, "Now, hush Love, here's your gown,  
"There's the bed, lanterns down."  
But I don't want to go to sleep.  
In all my dreams I drown._

_-"_In all my Dreams I Drown" from _The Devil's Carnival_ by Terrence Zdunich

* * *

Josh sat in the cell, alone.

Two months he'd been here, since that night with the ferries. Eight goddamn weeks without a word from the outside, without a speck of information. No one knew what to do with him, or the others. No records, no prints, no names. That was how the boss said it should be, but the pressure was turning up. The sentences were getting longer every day they didn't cooperate. The other inmates were asking questions.

He was restless, and angry. He didn't sign up for this. He'd never been in the slammer in his life. Why the hell now? And in Gotham no less…

Fucking boss.

Fucking Joker.

Every day, every single day, that asshole from the DA's office would come around to question him. Them. Didn't have much luck, but he visited anyway. Like he could annoy them into giving something away.

The other six were just as silent as he was. As far as he knew, of course. Jail tended to bring out the worst in guys, the animosity of self-preservation. But it wasn't about being insolent or trying to get out of trouble. Sure, the loyalty was there - Josh wouldn't betray the boss, the risk was too great, the benefits of keeping your mouth shut were too damn good, and a man who squealed was no better than a pig itself - but, honestly?

None of them knew shit.

The boss always kept it that way. All of them knew just a bit of the overarching idea, but none of them knew the whole plan. That's why they were all forced to work together, why they developed bonds so quickly. If they didn't, they'd fail. And they'd be dead. Either by way of the boss or by way of the pigs.

Speaking of, where the hell was the Joker? Josh didn't have any doubt in his confused little mind that the boss was fully capable of springing himself from Arkham and then springing them all from here, by himself if necessary. So why wasn't he doing it? Was he really just gonna leave them in jail to rot? Josh didn't have any illusions of importance, and he certainly didn't think the Joker would risk his skin just for their sorry asses, but he would for his own. After everything, they deserved better than this, at least.

And where were the other twelve members of the Twenty?

Screw this.

Josh missed his family. He wanted to be back in his own world, not stuck in this foreign place, simultaneously exactly the same as the universe he had left and mind-blowing in its differences. He wanted to see the shop again and hug his ma.

He hated this place. He really fucking di-

BANG

BANG

BANG

Explosions wracked the joint. Josh stood up quickly, exclamations of wonder and shouts of fear rising around him in the ringing silence afterward.

When the tall, thin, hunched figure emerged from the cloud of smoke at the end of the corridor and came to stand by his bars, Josh had just one thing to say:

"Well, it's about goddamn time."

* * *

The theater was just as they had left it, decadent and decayed. Fifteen men filed inside and stood silently for a moment in the entrance hall, staring around at the dust and cobwebs.

Fifteen men. Fourteen of the original Twenty, plus the Joker himself. It was mind-blowing, utterly flabbergasting to Blake how quickly things had gone off. One minute he was dodging Russian bullets and hiding out in a shitty apartment. The next he was back where he belonged, with thirteen good guys at his side and one psychotic genius.

The way Blake saw it, there were two reasons the men were still here, still game to get back in the game. One: They saw the opportunity the Joker presented his, felt the loyalty he inspired, felt grateful for their freedom. And two: They feared what would happen if they refused. Like two sides of a coin. If anything had been proven in the week since the Joker escaped Arkham, it was that he was a man who got things done.

It just seemed in everyone's best interests to keep calling him boss.

Of course, the media was freaking out about all of this. KILLER CLOWN ESCAPES ASYLUM was plastered on every street corner. The news of the seven convicts' escape from Blackgate in the same week, however - a feat Blake was very proud of - was page five news, so overshadowed by the Joker's return your average Joe hardly knew about it.

The pigs were not so unwise, however, but the mob's presence in the police force was rising steadily again, with the disappearance of Batman and the instalment of Sofia Gigante, Carmine Falcone's daughter, as head of the Italian crime family. Now that Sal Maroni and the Chechen were dead, and thus both the Dimitrov and Maroni families headless, the Falcones had risen back to dominance.

The family, obviously, had heard of the Joker's escape, like everyone else in the city. But it seemed that their attentions were focused instead on a "rising star," as the boss referred to him. A man who had been making a lot of trouble for the Italians, his gang interfering in everything from drug trades to assassination attempts. They said he was an eccentric, like the boss, like the rest of the bosses in Gotham. They said he "dressed up and shit," but that was all the information Blake had been able to get. He was curious to see if he'd recognize the guy. From, like a comic book.

The Falcones' distraction was all well and good. Honestly, the thing on Blake's mind right now was how they'd deal with the Demitrovs. Joker kept saying they were a fish without a head now that Alex and the Chechen were dead, not to worry about it, but Blake had seen the numbers that day he'd gone back to their warehouse, had seen the fury in their eyes at the mere sight of Joker's man.

And he'd seen Sid. Sid, with his gift of the gab and passion for power. Sid, who hadn't minded at all when Alex died. Who'd had enough sway with the rest of the Russians to smooth things over. Who, with Alex, had handed them the Chechen.

Sid was another rising star. But Blake doubted he'd be interested in the Falcones so much as the Twenty. Our numbers are weakened; we have to make the first move. And, besides, Blake wouldn't mind a little revenge for that deadly game of tag.

It was strange to walk around the theater again. It had only been a month and a half, but the dust seemed thicker, the air staler. The couch and TV in the rec room hadn't been touched, and it was eerie to open a cupboard and find a box of Cheerios still standing there, and an empty coffee mug waiting by the sink for washing.

The full refrigerator, on the other hand, was not what Blake would call _eerie._ He called Josh over, the youngest of the lot now that Jess and Seth were missing, and set him to cleaning it out and getting rid of the rotting smell.

It was nice to be the right hand man, a fact no one questioned anymore. His position as the Joker's most trusted had been set in firm stone as soon as the Joker had contacted him from Arkham.

Blake delegated menial tasks for the next couple hours, having been ordered by the Joker to get the place up and running again. The generator, luckily, was still working in the basement, but it needed gas, which he sent Boris to procure. Once light was shed, he had them sweep, knock the dust from the beds, get food, and set up some illegal cable. The boss had disappeared, as he usually did in the daylight hours, into his basement. That meant he wasn't open for business.

It felt strange, when everything was finished and things looked like they used to. Blake hadn't thought he'd be coming back here - the desire was one he'd pegged as fruitless. But the boss had made it happen. He always did. Some people might never understand, but Blake respected the guy.

When he walked by the basement door around eight that evening and found it ajar, he turned and headed immediately to the green room. After three swift raps, it creaked open from inside, and he entered the dim office of the Joker. The light was low, as ever, and tinged green by the wall paint. Green walls in the green room - a literal hilarity doubtlessly thought up by some theater geek twenty years ago.

Nothing had changed in here, either. The Joker's floor was littered with newspapers and blueprints and notebooks, here and there broken glass and Vodka bottles. One shabby couch sat dead center, a circular table behind it on the left wall, and a counter and refrigerator along the back. Today nothing was on that table, but Blake had spent many nights hunched around it with the Joker, a lamp, and a map or blueprint.

The boss himself had retreated to the window, deep in thought and mouthing words he didn't say aloud. He was once again in full makeup, though his hair had lost most of the green. His clothes, too, were not the classic purple garb, but simple gray slacks, suspenders and a green shirt. He worked his jaw as he stared out to Gotham, not even glancing at Blake as he sunk onto the couch. But he'd let him inside, which meant he was ready for a report and whatever conversation Blake wanted to have.

"Place is back to how it was," Blake told him, stretching and trying to feel at ease. He never felt at ease around the Joker, but for a while there they'd had some kind of rhythm going. The boss was inscrutable, but you could pick up on his ticks after a while. Paying attention to them kept him from getting annoyed by your reactions, a fact Blake told the other guys endlessly.

The Joker made some kind of vague hand motion, still staring out at the distant city lights. That probably meant he knew already, and he was satisfied, and good job and whatever other little adages you wanted to stick on it.

"Anything you need?" Blake asked. After a moment of silence, he added, "Because I think I'll hit the hay if you don't." He watched the boss begin to shake his head, then stop himself and, slowly, turn around to face Blake.

"Aren't you, uh... _curious_, Blakey?" he asked.

"Curious about what?"

The Joker smacked his lips with a disgruntled "ah" and turned away from him again. "_Jesster_ would've been _curious_," Blake heard him mutter. A chill ran down Blake's spine every time the Joker mentioned Jess - a subtle reminder that obsession, when it took hold, could run both ways.

"Aren't you curious," the Joker said, a little irritation in his tone, "about what we're gonna do _next_?"

Blake chuckled. If the boss wanted some idol worship, some big brown eyes staring up at him with nauseous wonderment and some full red lips asking, "what now, J?" Blake was decidedly not his guy. He ran a hand over his hair, newly bleached out once more.

"Sure," he replied amiably. "But I also think you'll tell me what I need to know." The Joker turned around again, chuckling a little, and pointed at him.

"You're good to have _around_, Blakey," he said. He began pacing forward, his hands leaping and gesturing as he spoke. "We got a strong core here. But I think you know, as well as I do, that we need more... _manpower_."

"I could spread some feelers," Blake said. "I'm sure there are dozens of guys willing to work for you. The Five Fingers just lost their head, and they've always been helpful..."

"Fine, fine," the Joker said, waving all that away. "But, _first_, don't you think we oughta bring our _little lost sheep_ back into the _fold_?" He raised his eyebrows at Blake. "Hm?"

"Get back the other five?" Blake asked. Now this was something he'd looked into. He sighed, having given up that hope long ago. "Boss, I don't know what to tell you. I've talked to everyone, _everyone_, and no one's seen shit. I thought Jess would be easiest, you know, to track down - you don't see girls like that all the time. But she's vanished, boss. I mean, her room was cleared out, so we know at least she came back for her stuff, but she could be anywhere by now. I'm running out of resources, here-"

He glanced up. The Joker stood in the shadows cast by the white moonlight, arms by his sides and chin tucked down. An amused little grin hinted at his mouth, but the eyes were careful, dangerous. As though he'd seen or heard something he hadn't liked. Blake stiffened. What was it he'd said?

"Save your _resources_, Blakey," the Joker said, his tone scarily mild. "I already _know_ where Jesster _is_." Relief met horror, some strange foreboding as the boss slowly walked to the back of the room and picked up an unmarked bottle from the counter. He tipped it to his mouth, throwing back three big swigs before smacking his lips and saying, "Ah." Blake felt increasingly uneasy. There was a possessiveness with which the Joker had said Jesster's name, some kind of warning. Maybe that part about not seeing girls like her all the time - maybe saying that had been a mistake.

The Joker let the moment linger for a bit longer, wiping his mouth in satisfaction and leaning back against the counter with crossed legs. "I already know where _all_ of them are. Or I will, as soon as you do a little recon for me."

"Where?" Blake asked, standing to face him fully. The eagerness with which hope returned was dangerous, he knew. Don't count your chicks before they hatch, and all that.

But as always, the boss surprised him. More than surprised him. Turned his world upside down with a few simple words.

"_I_ think," said the Joker, smiling, "that they've all gone back _home_."

* * *

Jess dreamed of the Joker every night now.

It was never the same. More often than not his face was distorted or vaguely shadowed, as if her own mind was working against her desire to keep the memories of him sharp. But he would always show up, in one incarnation or another.

Last week, for instance, she'd dreamt herself on a burning ship in the middle of the ocean. With the crew and passengers screaming, and no help for miles, Jess had decided to brave the icy water below. Perched on the bow, she'd turned back to the fire eating the wheelhouse for a long moment, and watched as, slowly, a figure stepped from the energy and shifting shadows, his coattails aflame. Singed and smoldering, yet seemingly unharmed, the Joker reached out to cup her chin. Jess floated towards him on a dreamy current of hot air, no conscious will in her decision to follow. But the calm he afforded her, as she drifted into the flames, past screaming skulls and burning children, let her know that everything would be alright.

Sometimes the dreams were about sex - images of the Joker's face above her as he rammed into her, looking up at his long tan body from her knees, watching him slide his tongue up her thigh. The emotions roiled in those ones, verging on anger, hatred, yet steaming so hotly with lust she woke up panting. She hated herself for it, but she often went to bed hoping she'd have that kind.

Last night's phantasmagoria had been particularly dark, lingering in the shadowy world where blood met eroticism. They were in a black room, where the space seemed to stretch on, limitless, and he was pacing around her in a wide circle. There was a keen longing in the air, the sense that if she didn't touch him, she'd die. She turned after him eagerly but he was always out of reach, just swallowed by the shadows. She begged him, come here, please come here. But he'd only laugh. "It's time you go to sleep," he kept saying. Every time she tried to step towards him it was like stepping on a floor of corpses, though it was too dark to see - she could feel their skin and blood and bones, snapping and bending beneath her. At one point, she looked down and saw only a liquid carpet of deep red, until Billy's face floated by, dead eyes wide. Yet still she tried to reach the Joker - one step and another and another. His footsteps filled the silence, his breathy chuckles in her ears. When she finally reached out and touched his sleeve, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. She slid in the muck around them and fell against him, her mouth already opening for the kiss she so badly desired. But when his lips pressed against hers, it was wrong. Too wet, too slimy. Liquid gushed into her mouth as the Joker's shoulders started shaking in silent giggles. She pulled away, horrified, and spat out a mouthful of red.

Needless to say, Jess had woken up not ten minutes ago with the image of the Joker laughing as blood spewed from his mouth. The first thing she did in the bathroom was wash her hands, as though his sticky blood really had covered them.

Her phone buzzed when she stepped out of the shower, feeling refreshed as the dream faded. That was the great thing about dreams. They were fleeting, delicate as spiderwebs, and you could dust them away.

Ian had texted her. He'd been doing that, since she'd first hung out with him. After day five she'd given in to his desire for her company, and had gone back to hang out at his place. Since then, despite Jess's firm misgivings and her feeling that this would all end really badly, they'd been seeing a lot of each other.

She barely shared anything with Ian, much less showed him who she really was. Around him, Jess found herself creating a character, someone so cool, so perfect she couldn't be real. She liked that. She liked the edge it gave her. The fascination in his eyes when she casually and easily told him blatant lies - "I've only been skydiving twice, but I'd do it again" "When we ran out of Euros, we squatted for a few weeks in this abandoned church" "I followed the guy who stole my laptop and got it back. Using a crowbar" - was well worth having to keep the lies straight.

Something had changed the night she and the boys had pulled one over on old Andy. Somehow, she didn't know how, but somehow she felt a sense of clarity. Each morning, despite the dreams, she got out of bed and looked forward to the day ahead. Rich, beautiful, free and powerful, she could do anything she wanted with them.

Pretending to be a different person, as she had for Andy, as she had as Jesster, as she was for Ian, was empowering. It gave her a control she'd never felt before. It was a freedom unlike the kind she'd experienced in Gotham, but just as heady. If the reality of herself was far from her mind, it was much easier to act on whatever whim took her fancy.

Jess started to look for thrills, as the character she'd created would. It started out small - borrowing Jackson's car and getting up to 100 mph down an open highway, breaking into an old building downtown and working her way to the roof to watch the stars, going alone to deliver drugs for Jackson. But with each successful thrill, each time there were no negative consequences, Jess got braver.

One night she convinced Ian and his friends to come play Ship's Mast on an abandoned stretch of road twenty miles out of the city. Holding tight to the belts looped through the windows at either side, Jess knelt on the hood of the car as it picked up speed and screamed "Faster!" It was a rush, like none she'd had since leaving Gotham. And it felt so good, so deliriously good, to be something other than tired and depressed that she scarcely cared about the danger. On the contrary, the thrill of death made it better.

She'd come to loath how weak she'd been. Looking back to Gotham, always under the Joker's thumb, terrified or obsessed or needing. What a fool he'd made of her, how powerless he made her even as she thought she was becoming stronger. It's good he's dead. It's good. That was her mantra now. Hopefully, in time, she'd start to believe it.

With every day that went by, Jess forgot little by little the way he'd really been. There were searing details, but she could no longer remember his words or the way he spoke or the feeling she'd had with him. The strongest impressions, now, were the ones her dreams gave her. And who's to say those were even accurate? Her anger was the only thing that outmatched her desire to overcome his memory. She knew what it was to hate something she wanted.

It was the nights that made her forget, if only for a while - smashing headlights and playing Ship's Mast and Chicken with other cars and jumping off railroad bridges as the train roared around the corner and drinking and young and stupid and destructive and not caring where it took you. Not needing responsibility or order because why would she? It was nights like those when she released her rage, so impotently cooped up inside of her. She started shoplifting, too, amazed at the ease of it. Why pay for something when you can get it for free?

Deciding she needed a change, that day Jess dyed her hair white-blond and razored it to an inch below her chin. The cut was "punk-glamor" as her stylist informed her. She loved it, loved what the color did to her pale skin. Directly from the salon, she walked into a tattoo parlor to keep the appointment she'd made, and strolled out five hours later with an elaborate black phoenix up her left side, from her hipbone to her ribcage. It hurt like hell, but it was worth it. A pheonix rises from its ashes. Jess was determined to do that, too.

It felt good to change, to be what she'd never been, to derail from the norm. Nothing was "the norm" anymore. She might as well embrace it.

"Hey who the hell are you?" Jackson asked jokingly from the couch when she walked in that night. She grinned and did a little twirl for them. The men seemed in better spirits lately, too, though it could simply have been Jess projecting. Billy was apparently starting to see some girl, and Jackson's business had taken off after the wreckage of Andy's crop. Six months had passed since their return from Gotham, and it seemed like things were looking okay. She didn't remember the last time she'd felt this optimistic.

"Look," she demanded of the boys, lifting up her shirt to bare her left side. Jackson and Billy made exclamations of wonder at the beautiful phoenix curling its way up her ribs, coming over to examine it further. Jackson traced its tail to her hipbone. She looked down at him, catching his eye. Something had changed in him, too. Lately they'd been staying up until 3 in the morning together, coming up with elaborate plans to have the White Poppers analyzed and synthesized. Imagine! A whole new drug, the formula to which only they knew (in this world). One with no known negative side effects and no addictive qualities. It was a pipe dream, as neither of them knew chemistry or anyone who did, but it was fun to discuss. And Jackson, when you got him talking, could be eloquent and passionate.

Thinking on Jackson, there was the kernel of a bad idea in there somewhere. Jess didn't think she felt any certain way about him, but sometimes the potential was unmistakable. He seemed to understand her better than anyone in Seattle, at least, though that wasn't saying much. They'd shared experiences, and were beginning to reminisce - past jobs, party nights, all that crazy shit that used to be their lives. The Joker was rarely mentioned, and then only in vague pronouns, but the nostalgia and relief came in equal measure. It was good to remember Gotham. It was good to laugh at what had once made her cry. Billy was so far up his own ass, she'd scarcely talked to him for weeks. He spent most of his time at that Sarah's. He was home tonight, though.

"Your hair is good," Billy said, flicking at a strand. Jess ran a hand through it, tousling it. She loved how short a stroke it took for her fingers to meet only air.

"The word is fabulous, dear," she told him, met only with an eye roll. Jess headed for the kitchen. Woman duties commence. "You staying for dinner?"

"No cooking for you tonight," Jackson said, intercepting her halfway to the door and steering her back with an arm around her waist. "We're going out. Go get ready."

"Where are we going?" Jess asked. Billy and Jackson smiled at each other.

"We have a surprise for you."

* * *

The possibility of return was one Blake hadn't considered since first arriving in Gotham. How did you jump a gap between universes once, much less twice? He hadn't known exactly how much control the Joker had over it, but he'd always thought it hopeless.

But the Joker had shown him a door in the basement - a door of black steel, inlaid with a keypad lock. He didn't explain how he'd found it, or how he'd discovered how to use it, but he did explain where it went. Another abandoned theater, in a dusty parking lot in Chicago, separated not only by space but by time and dimension. A world that had once been the only one Blake had known.

The real world, if there was such a thing. Home.

Apparently the Joker had spent his first afternoon back at base by going through this door. You had to use it within the hour of three - am or pm, it made no difference. Otherwise, it just led into a tiny black broom closet, filled only with a mop and a pail. But at the hour of three it became a portal into another dimension, like in some terrible sci-fi movie. If Blake hadn't experienced it for himself - without the blindfold he'd worn the very first time - he would never have believed it.

As it was, he crossed the portal and saw what the Joker saw. After a wave of mild nausea, he was upstairs wiping dust from a boarded window, to see the parking lot beyond. He knew as well as the boss that three black vans used to be parked there. Only now, one of them was gone.

Jess had apparently had the code to the door in the basement, and she'd gone through it. With who, if anyone, Blake didn't know, but the Joker said she'd had no idea where the door led. So he assumed she'd been led to it by Keith or Jackson.

He kept the fact that he was in his own universe again very far from his thoughts. Home was no longer an option - the Joker would find him right away, and he had family to think about. So that temptation to visit them, say goodbye to his mom, his brothers, the girlfriend he'd abandoned, had to be squashed.

So it didn't really feel good to be home. On the contrary, it was almost torture sometimes. He wanted to stay in Gotham every time he came back. The idea of crossing that threshold, feeling that vague illness, seeing the dusty theater on the other side, was nearly painful sometimes. But he had a job to do.

After three or four days of preliminary recon, Blake got a tip that Keith, at least, had returned to his home in Portland. He figured, at the very least, that it was a start. If Keith didn't already know where the others were, he'd help Blake locate them. In giving this information to the Joker, the boss had handed him a stack of bills told him to go, and not to come back without something. Preferably with everything. Thus discharged, Blake left Gotham by way of Chicago and headed to the West Coast.

The lights from Keith's house in the quiet suburban neighborhood spilled warmth onto the front lawn, where Blake stood for a while in pensive silence. It looked so peaceful he almost mourned having to corrupt it. Keith was a family guy, though whether or not that would come into play wasn't clear. It hadn't in Gotham. He'd barely mentioned his kids, or the wife he'd divorced two years ago. But now, with them fresh again in his mind... who knew? Blake thought he knew Keith well enough, however, to guess that it wouldn't factor in.

As if a bad omen, a long moment after knocking on the front door, it was opened slowly by a young girl with big sleepy eyes, dressed in a purple Barbie nightgown. Blake stared at her, at a loss for words. She couldn't be more than six or seven, and she had her dad's wavy blond hair and soft green eyes.

"Hi," he said dumbly.

"Hello," she replied shyly, hiding halfway behind the door, her eyes filled with curiosity and caution in equal measure.

"Uh," Blake said, running a hand over his hair. "Is your, uh... Is your dad home?"

Before she could answer, Keith's tall shadow filled the doorway. He said nothing when he first saw Blake, but pushed his kid behind him and stared for a long moment. There was no warmth in his eyes, no pleasure to see him. Instead, fear was cast darkly over his face, and foreboding. His stance told Blake he wanted him gone, away from his kids and his house. But Blake couldn't do that.

"Hey, Keith," Blake said. His tone told the other man that this was no social call. Keith turned to his daughter.

"Go upstairs and brush your teeth, Lea," he said. "Daddy will come tuck you in in a bit." With another fearful glance at Blake, Lea nodded and raced up the stairs on tiny bare feet. Keith stepped out onto the front porch with Blake and closed the door, cutting off the warmth, the smells of candles and dinner. He doesn't want me here. He doesn't want his life in Gotham to overlap with this one.

"Six months," Keith said, leaning against the side of the house and folding his arms. "No word. I'm trying to put my life back together. And suddenly you show up on my doorstep. What am I supposed to think about this?"

_Six months. It's only been two in Gotham._

"I'm sorry to do this to you, man," Blake said, and suddenly didn't know what else to tell him. A heavy silence fell as the rest of the words fled. Keith pursed his lips.

"This better not be what I think it is," he said.

"What do you think it is?" Blake asked.

"You running from the cops?" Keith replied. "Looking for a handout or a place to hide? I'm not offering you that. You can't stay here." Ouch. That wounded Blake's pride a little. As if he'd come running to someone for help with his problems. As if that had ever been how Blake operated. And even if he did ever get into a situation where asking for help was necessary, they'd been brothers back in Gotham - Keith had been one of the closest to him of the Twenty. But now, it seemed, that camaraderie had turned to bitterness.

Blake clenched his fists. "Well don't worry about that," he said, tone low and dangerous. "I'm set up as it is." _And a hell of a lot more powerful than you._

"Then what do you want?" Keith replied. This wasn't how Blake had seen this going. He'd imagined Keith smiling to see him again, maybe folding him into a hug, laughing at his jokes and celebrating their reunion. The cold, clipped, frightened Keith was far more difficult to contend with. It seemed coming back to his kids made him remember why he didn't want a life of crime.

"Joker sent me."

A shockwave of horror swept over Keith, visible in its profundity. His eyes widened and he stood silent, every fiber of him awash with tension.

"Joker?" he rasped finally. He shook his head. "No. Joker's dead."

Dead? Was that what they thought? It explained a lot - the escape, the disbanding of the group, the horror in Keith's eyes.

"If he is," said Blake, chuckling, "he's one hell of a charismatic corpse."

"He fell off a building," Keith insisted, taking a step towards him. Blake's hackles raised. There was something wild, maybe panicked, about the other man. He was dangerous like this, like a bear protecting its young.

"He got caught," Blake corrected, keeping his tone mild but firm, and standing ground. "They took him to Arkham, but... you know the boss. He doesn't do so good behind bars."

"The boss..." Keith mumbled. "Jesus Christ, Blake. Jesus Christ. I can't. I can't go." He searched Blake's face imploringly for some kind of comfort, but all Blake had for him was a stony stare. He was vaguely angry. Blake had assumed Keith had found a strange happiness in Gotham, the way he had. There was a fulfillment there, a sense of being part of something bigger. But no. His one time companion had only been surviving, looking to get out. He hadn't found the life in it. He considered his return an escape.

Keith saw the disappointment in Blake's eyes. And then, he began to break. He seized Blake by the shoulders and got right in his face, worried and fearful, losing all semblance of the composure he'd once maintained. Blake had seen Keith stone faced in the middle of an explosion, collected as bullets whizzed by his ears, laughing with the boss as they raced around a corner in a stolen car. This frenzy was unprecedented, and more than unnerving.

That made things much, much it wasn't like he had any leverage - Blake didn't want to have to hurt Keith or his family, but he would tell the Joker about this. And the Joker almost certainly had fewer limitations. Blake probably wouldn't even have to be the one to deal with it - the boss would send a few guys who hadn't been particularly close to Keith.

"He doesn't know where I am, does he?" Keith said, voice breaking with stress. "You didn't tell him? Shit, Blake, I can't go back there. I fucking can't."

"I'm not sure he's leaving you much of a choice."

Keith shoved him. Hard. Blake staggered back a few paces, but he was larger than the other man and wasn't too worried about fighting him. He didn't want it to come to that, though.

But neither did Keith, it seemed. He glanced down the dark, empty neighborhood street and took a deep breath, raising his hands in apology. Suddenly he was Keith the Cool again, the one Blake had known in Gotham. Keith, who never let anything get to him. Who always had a joke and a smile.

"Sorry," he said. "Sorry, I... It's just... The kids. Their mom would never forgive me if I left again. They'd never forgive me."

"I'm just the messenger," Blake replied. The appeals weren't really tugging at his heart strings, truth be told. In fact, he found it a bit nauseating. Keith was betraying the Twenty. You couldn't just turn around and step out of the game - kids or no. "Boss wants us all back in Gotham."

"I don't care what the boss wants," Keith replied. "When he got caught, it was game over."

"_Wrong_," Blake snapped. "If you'd have grown some fucking nuts and stayed around for more than a couple hours, you would have known this was coming."

"I was scared," Keith said. "We all were."

"And that's supposed to make this shit okay?"

"What should I have done?" Keith asked angrily. "Huh? What would you have had me do?"

"You were _supposed_ to have a little faith," Blake replied. "Like the rest of us. You _weren't_ supposed to run away with your little fucking tail between your legs. And _now_ you're supposed to come with me."

"Fuck you," Keith said. "Fuck you and get off my fucking property before I call the police."

"Jesus Christ," Blake said, shaking his head. "You're threatening me with cops? What the fuck happened to you?" That gave Keith pause. A glimmer of wounded pride flashed across his face, but he brushed it off with anger.

"I got my priorities in line," he said. "I'm not living in that... fantasy world. Now get off of my lawn."

Shit. Keith was stubborn in this. Blake couldn't let this become a dead end. He had to give a little leeway, at least until the Joker decided what to do about this.

"Fine," Blake said, though the words were painful to conjure. "Listen, I'll make you a deal. I won't tell the boss about this if you give me the rest of them." It was a lie, but what can you do. "Who knows? Maybe he'll forget about you when he gets the others back. Maybe he'll forget to drop by and visit." _Fat fucking chance_, and they both knew it. But, despite his tough facade, Keith was willing to grasp at any chance, even a fat one. Blake knew the idea of his family at the clown's hands was horrifying enough to ensure some modicum of helpfulness.

* * *

Jess laughed in delight when they finally uncovered her eyes, blinded momentarily by the glowing lights and huge, flickering marquee. A line of eager patrons were lined up at the ticket booth, buzzing with anticipation and energy. Beyond, exhilarated screams and laughter floated above the tents and booths, the smells of caramel corn and cotton candy wafting headily into her nose.

A carnival! The biggest carnival in the state. A night of innocent, whimsical fancy. Jess hugged Billy and Jackson in turn, unable to stop grinning. She hadn't been to a carnival since she was eight.

Today had really been an excellent one. The only unfortunate things were the ache of the tattoo and the presence of Billy's girlfriend, _Sarah_. They'd picked her up on the way here, like it should've been obvious she was coming. She was this tiny brunette thing with a flat bob and buckled shoes, hipster desperation in everything she did and said. Billy was extremely impressed by her, and it pissed Jess off because she _clearly_ wasn't that impressive. The pinch of her mouth when Jess lingered on Billy's hug was satisfying, and enough to let Jess know that Sarah wasn't her hugest fan, either.

But c'est la vie. Jess took Jackson's arm - mimicking Sarah's cling to Billy - as they walked through the front entrance. The men were of the firm opinion that their first objective should be something fried and delicious, so they wound their way slowly past blinking lights and crowded lines and laughing kids. It brought back the peace and happiness of her childhood - no worries, no fears, no responsibilities. Just her and the sheeple and roller-coasters and funnel cake. Innocent and carefree.

Well, maybe it wasn't all innocent. Each of them had a flask of whisky, because obviously you had to be drunk at a carnival, and they'd eaten pot brownies about thirty minutes ago. Except fucking _Sarah,_ who could apparently drive drunk, but certainly not stoned.

In any case, it felt like a perfect merging of the two sides of Jess's life - the years before Gotham, innocent and soft and untroubled; and ever since, when fun took on a new meaning.

She felt giddy as they climbed onto their first ride, and vaguely sick afterwards, but still giddy. She felt better than she had for a long time, actually - there was no tugging sadness, not even much anger, no nostalgia or bitterness. It was vaguely surreal - how had her life led up to this point? Were things finally starting to be behind her? She hoped so. She could even think about the clown prince of crime, the one who'd changed her and tried to kill her and left her, and not want to lie down or scream.

She bet she could even say his name.

"Joker," Jess whispered as they walked towards the enormous fun house, like it would purge it from her mind. "Joker. Joker. J."

"What are you saying?" Jackson asked, blithe and curious. Jess looked up, startled, to find three pairs of eyes on her. She had been talking out loud, but she'd assumed the ambient noise would cover it. However, they all looked mildly concerned - _Sarah_ in particular. Jess wanted to punch her. But that didn't keep her attention for long.

Because a flash of white had appeared between the tents at the side of the fairway - white blond hair, short and tousled, on a very tall, muscular man in a black t-shirt and dark jeans. As soon as he noticed her head turned in his direction, he disappeared again.

It was too far to see his face, but Jess knew - with this terrible sinking in her gut - that it would be handsome, despite the long scar running over his left eye.

The world came crashing down all over again, as had happened to her too many times not to expect it. She felt herself lose her breath, unable to inhale as she stared at the place he'd been. A very bad feeling was washing over her. _Calm down_, she told herself, telling the others she'd just been singing a song in her head. _You don't even know it really _was_ Blake._

But really, she did. She knew it was him. And now the question was, what did he want? He'd come from Gotham and found them. That wasn't an accident. Part of her wanted to be pleased, but Jess felt deep in her core that this wasn't a good thing. Perhaps it was the bitter memory of his betrayal, of the pistol whip to the head, of the things he'd told her, of how they had left things. She distinctly remembered him saying something along the lines of "Fuck you, you crazy bitch. I'm done." Perhaps it was the uncanny coincidence of having just said the Joker's name out loud for the first time in months, like she'd summoned something.

But the Joker was dead. He was dead. And it was good he was dead. So Blake's reappearance did _not_ have to do with him.

She didn't say anything to Jackson and Billy. She didn't want to alarm them - especially not with Sarah around - and if they knew, they might want to go find Blake. Jess wanted Blake to make the first move, to pretend she hadn't noticed him. She wasn't quite sure why, but she was getting better at listening to her gut.

The fun house at this carnival was one of wide repute - elaborate, weird and huge, a permanent on site structure. Someone spent way too long designing it, but it was one of the attractions that brought the largest crowds. Somehow, in the very first room - a huge colorful maze - they got split up. Even with how hard Sarah had been clinging to Billy, Jess found herself alone with the other girl, the men nowhere in sight in the maze of glitter and streamers and randomly popping balloons. Not wanting to even deal with that, Jess almost immediately turned down a path and left her, striking ahead on her own.

Her mind was working furiously over the reappearance of Blake, so she didn't really noticed crossing into a rotating star-pricked tunnel or stepping gingerly over sliding plates in a black-lit room. She came to the realization that she didn't want him here. He'd fuck everything up again. He'd turn it all back upside down. Somehow, she didn't know how, but he'd do this. So her plan was avoidance, which probably wasn't going to be terribly difficult in this carnival. It was the others she worried about. They didn't have that bitter feeling in their throats when they thought of Blake. They wouldn't be on their guard against him.

Jess paused to catch her breath at the hall of mirrors. She had absolutely no concept of where the others where, nor how long this house might go on. From somewhere around her were hoots of exhilarated laughter, but she hadn't seen another person for a while now. A sense of isolation was creeping in, and not only because she'd lost track of her group.

"Billy?" she heard the voice behind her, shrill and concerned. _Sarah_. Jess plunged into the hall of mirrors to distance them, taking random turns until Sarah's stupid little voice faded.

The lights in here were dim and blue, casting everything in a surreal light. Jess watched her reflection distort as she walked by the different mirrors, vaguely amused. She paced down the hall, trying out each mirror in passing. Four or five went by before she accidentally bumped into someone.

Before she turned to apologize, a huge pair of hands grabbed her arms and spun her around, pushing her backwards into a tiny, shadowy dead end. Jess fought back, of course, and whoever it was shoved her against the wall, using a powerfully solid body to restrain her. He was much taller than her, and smelled like cigarettes and Old Spice. Disoriented, Jess's heart starting pounding and anger began to rise, until the stranger leaned down and whispered into her ear, "Remember me, princess?"

"Blake," she said immediately, filled with both relief and horror. Of course. Obviously. If Jess wasn't so wary of him, she might have been glad. At least she knew he wouldn't attack or anything. Even so, her heart sank. Now that he had her cornered, her whole avoidance plan probably wouldn't work.

One palm planted on the wall beside her head, his other hand slid up her arm to her shoulder, and then to her newly cut hair. He toyed with it for a second, gently, the tenderness in his eyes clear. That and his proximity irritated Jess. Where did he come off, acting like they were still close?

"What are you doing here?" Jess demanded in a harsh whisper, pulling away from his hand. Blake leaned back, eyebrows raised.

"Gotta admit, Jess" he said. "That's not exactly the reaction I hoped for, after six months." There wasn't disappointment in his eyes, just resignation. He might not have hoped for this reaction, but he'd expected it.

Jess stared at him. Wonderful, powerful Blake - wasn't that how she used to think of him? Well, at least the powerful part was still right. Some part of her had missed him, intensely. Some part of her wanted to fling her arms around his neck, maybe even kiss him a little. But he'd been such a huge part of her life in Gotham, he was almost synonymous with it. In coming here, he'd brought Gotham with him. And Jess didn't want that. It infuriated her, in fact.

"Yeah, well," she said coldly, "what exactly did you hope for, then? A big fucking _kiss_?"

Blake, for his part, didn't let that get to him. He just chuckled easily, resting his free hand on her hipbone. Like he had the right to touch her.

"That would've been a start," he said, smiling. Jess simply stared at him, and Blake leaned a bit closer. "I wanted to talk to you first."

"Well congratu-fuckin-lations," Jess said. "You got me. Now talk." Blake finally frowned at that, realizing, perhaps, that she wasn't going to be won over by flirtation and airiness.

"You're still mad?" he said. "About... that night?" Jess tensed. Like his betrayal had been nothing. Like she should forgive him. Like _she_ was the unreasonable one! He felt her muscles bunch but didn't remove his hand. In fact, his fingers tightened against her hipbone, as though it could keep her there.

"I'm still mad about a lot of things, Blake," she replied. "Now tell me what you want, or I swear to god I'll scream rape." Blake's reaction was immediate. The hand that he'd braced against the wall flew up to her mouth, covering it and forcing her head back against the wall. For a moment, the display of dominance kind of turned her on, even with fury rearing its head. What was wrong with her, anyway? Given, she'd calmed down a bit on men - hadn't had sex in three months now - but this was _Blake_. That was about as much of a _no-fucking-way-not-ever_ as it could possibly be.

Anger and lust, though, coexisted perfectly in Jess - they fed off each other, actually. And now she was seeing the definition of his triceps under that black t-shirt, the veins in his forearms, the smell of masculinity and exhilaration. And she was thinking,_ how can I turn this to my advantage?_

"You scream," Blake whispered, bringing his face close, "and I'll make you wish you hadn't."

* * *

**Review pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeea se!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Here's chapter six! I'd really appreciate reviews, as always. And thank you so much to everyone who had a couple words to say!**

* * *

This dynamic was new. Blake wasn't used to threatening Jess, and he wasn't used to being the target of her venom. That last night in Gotham aside, when he'd gotten fed up and said things she hadn't wanted to hear, he'd always been gentle with her. Protective. Because someone had to. And honestly, he'd liked the kid.

And now, here, again with the threats. And again with the animosity from her side. His hand was covering her mouth, forcing her head back against the wall, but she did not shrink from him. No fear was evident in that dark stare, where there might have been only a few months ago. She was gazing at him, angrily expectant, challenging.

"Now," he said. "I'm here to collect you. Bring you back with me."

That made Jess lose her breath. She tried to inhale against his hand but found it difficult, and finally reached up and ripped his palm away from her mouth to gasp in a deep breath.

"_No,_" she rasped harshly, meeting gaze for gaze, unyielding.

Something had changed in Jess, Blake was beginning to realize. Something about the past six months she'd spent here had altered her. Or, perhaps, completed a transformation that had already been underway. She looked thinner, wiser... _older_, much older than Blake remembered. Her hair was different, paler and sharper and angled, and it seemed to befit the angularity of her cheekbones, the slightly sunken eye sockets.

A woman stood before him now, no longer a girl, hostility in her eyes and bitterness in the twist of her mouth. He'd always thought her pretty, but the softness in her features had given way to severe elegance, cutting beauty. There was dark fire in her look, like flames over marble. Her full lips were painted red, a vivid splash on a creature otherwise of white ice.

But listen to him, waxing poetic.

A moment of regret went through Blake, for what he couldn't say. It was like looking at the marble statue of a friend he'd once had - hard, cold, unreachable and artful. His fingers clenched at her jutting hipbone.

"What do you mean _no_?" Blake said. He understood what was going on here. Jess and the others thought the Joker was dead, if what Keith had said was true. But how would she feel if he told her otherwise?

"I mean, _fuck off_," Jess said. Blake's mouth twitched. Okay, so there was something left of the Jesster he'd known. His smile enraged the girl. She pushed him backwards by the shoulder, probably as hard as she could. It didn't budge him, which brought a spark of fury to her eyes. Those full lips twisted into a snarl and she pushed him again, harder, hard enough this time to make rock back. Laughing, Blake braced his hand on the wall beside her head and leaned forward. She stayed where she was, tense, allowing him to come closer, refusing to be intimidated. He chuckled again.

"You think you're pretty tough, don't you princess?" he said, unable to stop smirking. The anger in her eyes at that made him laugh again, because, Jesus, she really did. It was cute, quite sexy. Spirited, that was Jesster. She didn't know shit, but she put on a big front.

"_Don't_ laugh at me," she said, pulling his hand forcibly from her hip. She smacked his shoulder. "You think you can _laugh_ at me?"

"No," Blake said, trying to stop. But, Jesus, this poor fucking thing. She was always the one to know the least. His shoulders were shaking with suppressed chuckles. "No, sorry, but Jess..."

"Get away from me," she snarled.

She pushed him back again, trying to drive him away from where he had her trapped against the wall. But Blake was much, much stronger than her. He forced her into it with his body, mind back on the mission, trying to ignore the feel of her squirming against him, and wrapped a massive hand around her neck. He opened his mouth to say the words that would surely change her mind.

But Jess snarled, suddenly slashing at his face with long red nails. He jumped back, avoiding the blow but allowing her time to slip around him. Blake bumbled after her, but she was quick and spry. Smallness, swiftness - those weren't quite Blake's strong points. She disappeared in the strobing lights and mirrored angles, leaving him reaching for her reflection before realizing it wasn't her.

Blake cursed, tried to find his bearings, and lost her completely. A giggling couple pushed by him, the girl's stilettoed heel coming down hard on his toes.

"Fuck," Blake grunted, stumbling back against a mirror. "Fuck!" He slammed a fist into the wall, cracking the glass. Stupid bitch! If she would have just _listened _to him...

He wove quickly through the mirror maze, having completely lost his sense of direction, and found himself at the beginning again, facing a door you could only open from the other side. Swearing profusely, receiving some very dirty looks from a number of patrons, Blake again made his way through, this time out to the other side. It took him around fifteen excruciating minutes to finally exit that goddamn fun house, and by that time, Jess had disappeared, along with Jackson, Billy, and whoever that other dark haired woman was.

Earlier that evening, he'd arrived at the Seattle address Keith had given him just in time to watch Jess, Billy and Jackson hop into their car. He'd followed them stealthily, curious as to where they were going, tracking them to and through the carnival. It had kind of been fun. He'd been very good at tailing when he was younger, and he was pleased to find that not all of what he'd learned so long ago had escaped him. Jess, he thought, had seen him once, but only briefly before he'd cornered her.

Now he berated himself for not just confronting the three of them on the spot at Jackson's house, but at the time he'd wanted to do this gently. Keith's reaction had made him wary, and rightfully so. He'd thought Jess would be easiest to talk to if he could get her alone. But, as ever, the best made plans of mice and men oft gang agley.

Blake left the carnival immediately, wanting to show up at Jackson's house and intercept them. He wasn't sure how much Jess was going to tell the others, or what their reactions would be, but he _had_ to explain fully. They had to know.

He got lost. Which was fucking perfect. After an hour of swearing and beating on his steering wheel, he finally found Jackson's house again - but the lights were on inside, and the car was in the driveway.

Blake sat behind the wheel for a long time, staring at the front door and trying to come up with a plan. It might be better, he decided, to just knock and spill his guts before they could push him out. _Surprise! Your boss is alive and he wants you back at work._

Blake exited the car and strode towards the house, across the sparse lawn in three broad strides. Just as he reached the concrete steps up to the porch, the front door opened. And who should slip out silently but Jess, in a red dress and heels.

Aiming a gun at him.

Blake groaned and stopped in his tracks as she leveled the pistol at his shoulder. Her stance was wide, her hands firm and steady.

"Been practicing with that, princess?" Blake said. Jess tilted her head, staring.

"I'm going to say this one time," she said, the seriousness in her tone unmistakable. At that moment, Blake understood she might actually shoot him. "If you do not choose to leave us alone, I will _make you_."

Blake blinked, shook his head. Who the fuck was he talking to? He almost had to laugh, in sheer disbelief that this was happening. Bizarre. Surreal, even. Jessica, with her wide eyed awe and terror. Jessica, who'd clung to his arm at the mere mention of the Joker. Who hadn't been able to stop crying sometimes. This girl was threatening to kill him - coldly and calmly threatening to kill him. He opened his mouth to retort, but she flicked off the safety.

"Say one more word," she told him. "I dare you."

Blake decided it wasn't worth it. Anger was bubbling through him, as was the keen sense of betrayal he'd felt with Keith. What was it with these people? He stared at her for a long time, face hard, before finally shaking his head and turning away from her. But as he made his way silently back to his car, everything he wanted to say regurgitated up his throat. Blake stopped, turned back around and pointed at her

Jess had kept the gun trained on him, steady and unblinking. It pissed Blake off. _Fuck her_, he decided._ If she won't give me the chance to talk, let her stay ignorant_. He let out a noise of disgust and dropped his hand, resisting the urge to flip her off or reach for his own firearm. She'd regret this. In the end, she'd regret it.

Feeling petty and furious, Blake got back in his car and drove away.

* * *

When Billy walked in the door at eleven the next morning, he found Jess laying face-down on the ratty living room couch, an empty bottle of wine balanced delicately between the floor and her fingers. The heavy rise and fall of her back indicated deep, drunken sleep. Billy paused for a moment in the doorway to watch. There was something odd about the scene - certainly something stranger than the average picture of Jess in a drunken slumber - but it wasn't until Billy had gone to the kitchen and come back with a mug of coffee that he realized what bugged him about it.

Jess's face was turned toward him, her full mouth open slightly, a gossamer strand of drool dripping from it to the pillow. Her pale hair was as ratty as he'd ever seen it, the rings under her eyes much darker - no doubt aided by the pill bottle spilling its contents next to the wine. But the thing that was bothering Billy, the most disturbing thing, was what she wore - a short red dress, stained and ripped at both hems, a hole gaping in the shoulder. On her feet were too-high black pumps, one just dangling off the foot that was slung over the arm of the couch.

It was her Jesster outfit, of course. Even without the top hat, he'd recognize it anywhere. Only half a year ago, the sight of her in it wouldn't have given him pause. But the thing was, she hadn't worn it since the night they'd left Gotham.

Something told him the carnival last night had something to do with this. The dried tears and snot on her face told him it wasn't necessarily good, either. She'd been acting utterly strange since leaving that fun house last night - wouldn't really talk to them or look them in the eye, demanded that they go home immediately. She'd snapped at Sarah a few times, too, leaving Billy with misgivings about bringing the two women together again. He hadn't thought he cared what Jess thought about his new girl, but he was disappointed despite himself that they didn't like each other.

He'd been dropped off at Sarah's apartment, where he'd spent the night, and now he decided he needed a shower. Leaving the girl passed out on the couch, he went upstairs to get ready for the day.

When he came back down half an hour later, he found Jess seated on the couch, looking distinctly groggy as she carefully and slowly threaded a needle.

"You missed a call," she told him, nodding toward the kitchen, where he'd left his cell phone.

"Doing some sewing?" he asked as he headed into the other room to check.

"I decided to fix the holes in this dress," she replied, and when Billy had grabbed his phone and came back in to see her, sure enough she was stitching up the rips along the hemline at her legs. It was looking kind of cool, the black stitches against red fabric. He decided not to mention that he recognized what she was wearing.

He had a voicemail he saw. Giving Jess the signal for "just a sec" and pacing away, he checked his inbox.

"_Billy! It's Blake._" Billy stopped in his tracks, a rush of adrenaline making him cold from scalp to shins. He honestly had not thought he'd ever hear this voice again. He almost turned back to Jess to let her in on this, but Blake went on to say, "_Don't tell Jess I'm calling you - she wants me to stay away from you guys. I have this feeling she won't tell you I'm trying to get in touch. So until we can talk, keep this from her - please." _Blake paused, perhaps to gather his thoughts._ "I'm in Seattle. I'm calling from a payphone at the Roosevelt Hotel. That's downtown. I want you to meet with you tonight. Got your number from Keith." _Another pause, this one longer. Billy was starting to sweat. What was this about? Blake was back in this universe? What was he doing here? How did he get here?

_"Listen, man," _Blake said. "_I'm just gonna get this out there. I'm here to bring you guys back. The boss is alive, Bill, and he wants you all in Gotham. Seth's already on his way to Chicago from New Orleans. Jess doesn't know, and it sounds like she doesn't want to."_

At this moment, with Billy's mouth hanging open in utter shock and cold waves of horror racing through his body, Jess pushed past him on her way upstairs.

"I'm going out," she called to him. Billy was overstimulated. He had no idea what to say. It was all he could do to keep listening to Blake's voice.

"_Meet me at the Roosevelt at we're heading back to Chicago and, uh... crossing over into Gotham again. If you want to avoid a personal visit from the boss, I suggest you keep this meeting. I'll call Jackson, too. Hopefully he picks up his phone."_

The line went dead. Billy stood for a long moment in the living room, processing all that he'd heard and trying to figure out what this meant. Then again, what the fuck was he doing? What did he _think_ it meant? It meant get back to Gotham or have an angry Joker after you. Some part of him was almost glad, while the rest of him wanted to kill something. After six months, he was once more uprooting his whole life to return to that place. And, if you thought about it, he really didn't have a choice. Why couldn't the clown just _stay dead_?

Staring so intently at the dead screen of his phone, Billy didn't even notice Jess jogging past him until she called, "See ya!" and the front door slammed behind her.

"Wait," Billy said weakly, not that she'd be able to hear him. Heart suddenly pounding, he turned and strode to Jackson's room, wanting to share this information with him.

The door opened from the inside right before he raised a hand to knock, and Jackson came out, pale and shaken. His cellphone was clutched tightly in his hand.

"Did you talk to Blake?" he asked Billy immediately, his voice strained but even, and Billy explained what had happened.

"I spoke to him," Jackson said. "I told him we'd meet him downtown. We have till three am - that's fifteen hours to pack and get our asses on a plane." Billy nodded, unable to argue. He had nothing. Jackson seemed almost eager to go and he couldn't even begin to imagine the consequences of ignoring the Joker's demands. It was easier to simply go back.

He regretted Sarah, but there was really nothing he could do about it if he wanted her to stay alive. Their romance had only just been blossoming, he told himself. At least he wasn't in love or anything.

As Billy ran upstairs to pack, Jackson attempted to get ahold of Jess and let her in on what was going on. It was fruitless because, of course, the girl had a fairly bad habit of leaving her phone on the charger in her room.

"We'll wait till five," Billy told Jackson, who was fretting over the idea of up and leaving her here. "But if she's not back by then, there's not much we can do."

They did wait till five, and she wasn't back by then. Jackson left a note on the kitchen counter, explaining everything he could, and the two men - somewhat melancholy and guilty - left the house darkened and abandoned.

* * *

It's funny, isn't it, those little coincidences that shape your life. The little particulars, the things you don't even notice at the time, that make such a huge difference. The devil in the details, the chaos in the creases. It's funny, the impact that can be made by the tiniest of fragments, the way a gram of dynamite explodes into a devastating blast.

Jess had left her phone at home when she'd gone to Ian's that morning. She'd simply forgotten it, distracted by her thoughts of Blake's appearance last night and what it meant. She'd wanted to visit her friend so that she was distanced from all that - last night had brought back the memories of Gotham in sharp, bittersweet bursts. As soon as Blake had gotten in his car and driven away, Jess had retreated into the house, rushed upstairs, and burst into tears.

She'd spent the rest of the night falling back into bad habits. A Vicodin and two bottles of wine later, she'd been dancing around in her old red dress, the one that still smelled like smoke and gas and _him_. She'd laughed as much as she'd cried, screamed out the window until Jackson had pounded on her door to shut her up. Then she'd climbed onto the roof to finish another bottle of wine, singing loudly, smoking whenever she wasn't. It had started to rain when she was staring up at the few dim stars visible in a light polluted sky, but she'd allowed the water to wash over her for a good hour before climbing back inside.

She didn't remember anything after that, but she'd woken up on the couch in the morning and immediately called Ian to hang out. He seemed a safe place, a comfort zone of normalcy. To pass the time, following some instinct she didn't quite understand, Jess had stitched up the hem and neckline of the old red dress.

But it felt good to do so somehow.

She should really just stop trying to figure herself out, Jess decided. It was easier to act without too much introspection. Introspection just made everything worse.

It was nearing midnight by the time she returned home, with Ian in tow. It had only taken a few purred words about how she didn't want to be alone, and the guy was loading her into his shitty old truck. Jess thought maybe Ian's feelings towards her went deeper than just wanting to get in her pants. That was as hilarious as it was sad.

There were no lights on in the house when they pulled up. Stranger still, both the van and Jackson's old car were gone from the driveway. A strange anxiety opened in Jess's chest, some deep foreboding brought on by the darkness of the place. The front door creaked as she opened it slowly, to a pitch dark interior, lifeless and gloomy. She clutched Ian's tattooed hand and pulled him over the threshold, breath getting shallow.

"Hello?" she called. No reply. She called again. The house was empty. So where were the boys? And why hadn't they kept her updated?

She ran up to her room, grabbed her phone and called each of them, but got their voicemails both times. Giving up, feeling slightly put out and irritated, she slumped back down to the living room, where Ian had just loaded the bong.

They spent the next hour smoking and talking, opening bottles of wine and even getting a little cocaine into the mix. Around three in the morning, there was a solid knock on the door.

Jess was slumped over on the couch, too stoned to move or care who would be calling at this hour. She figured it was just Jackson or Billy, having forgotten their keys.

"Can you get it?" she asked Ian, and he jumped up immediately to go answer the door.

"Hey, uh, Jessica," Ian strode back into the room, eyebrows furrowed. "Someone named Blake is here... He says he wants to see you..." He trailed off, not sure of what to say.

Jess sighed and pushed away from the couch, increasingly irritated by this bullshit. Blake's arrival was highly significant, but he couldn't expect her to halt her life every time he dropped by. She didn't want to hear what he had to say, and she didn't want him here. They weren't a team anymore, and he wasn't first mate. She stomped to the door and pulled it open, mouth parting to let him know exactly what she thought of all this.

He was pointing a gun in her face.

"Gotcha, princess."

Jess froze, staring at the weapon, and heard Ian shakily say from behind, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, man, no need for that." Blake rolled his eyes at the other man, face grave, lips clenched tight over the cigarette between them.

Blake waved her inside with the matte black barrel, and followed, barking that Ian should take a seat calmly on the fucking couch. He was still aiming at Jess, who thought fleetingly about putting her hands up and then deciding that was fucking ridiculous. Blake wasn't going to _shoot_ her. It wasn't about trust. It was about knowing him. His conscious wouldn't let him. He'd kill a man he didn't know, but the thought of killing a _friend_… betraying so badly a bond of loyalty… That wasn't Blake. Besides, he had a weakness for her. It was evident in the softening of his eyes.

Jess opened her mouth again, this time to tell him to go fuck himself.

Then Josh stepped through the door, followed closely by Peter and Laurence—all three having been absent since Gotham. Her biting words were vacuumed back into a gasp, as next Billy and Jackson came through, looking mildly ashamed of themselves. Good. They probably should be.

"What the f-"

She never finished that curse, either. In fact, in the next instant her world stopped still, frozen in a wonderful, terrible moment of incredulity, elation, horror, relief and nausea. She was suspended; space and time had no meaning, nothing did, besides horrible dawning comprehension.

Her previous gasp emptied from her lungs in a strangled noise of alarm and a sob, an animal sound of pure surprise, too loud in the stillness after his entrance. She slumped, feeling as though the breath was knocked from her.

_The_ _Joker_ had just walked through that door.

_What? How? When? _

_WHAT THE FUCK._

He looked so good—amazing, in fact, like a dream. Was she dreaming? Was this a hallucination?

He was dressed in a black pinstriped suit and wide brimmed black fedora, ironically dashing, his hair knotted back under the hat. His attractiveness was striking, aggressive, and his beautiful face - void of makeup - was only made more fierce by the pale, twisting scars up either cheek. She found she couldn't look away from the full lips, a bit tanner than the rest of him, with the knicks and cuts she knew so well. And his hands… spidery, pale, long fingered and scarred, they gripped the top of a brutal crowbar, which he rested against the floor and leaned against like it was a cane.

This was the Joker. This was J.

_He was alive_.

_He was here. In this universe. _

_The world was literally going insane._

Jess sucked in a breath - having forgotten to inhale - and backed away slowly from this ghost, this specter, this fucking _ghoul_ that wouldn't stop haunting her. Even when she thought she was beginning to let him go, drive him away from her thoughts, he came back with a fucking vengeance. Terrible and solid and _real_. A strangled noise of disbelief escaped her mouth, and she slapped her hands against her lips.

His smile at her reaction, calm and amused, brought on a rush of anger. Pale and shaking, Jess stepped towards him once, twice, again and again, needing to know, needing to be _sure_ that this was happening. That she hadn't gone completely insane this time. Her world was cracking, her vision swimming, her emotions roiling and writhing.

He watched her silently as she stepped up to him, reached up to run her fingers slowly down his cheek. Smooth skin stretched taught over cheekbones met knotted scars - solid and warm under her hand. She touched his cracked lips, full and perfect, exactly as she remembered.

Then she slapped him. Hard. As hard as she could, hard enough that his face turned and his eyes widened in surprise. Blake stepped forward to stop her but the Joker held up a black gloved hand to stave him off, turning back to Jess with a wide bloody smile.

"Gotta say, _Jesster_," he said, cracking his jaw and roughly wiping away the trickle of blood that ran from his mouth. "That, uh, wasn't _exactly_ the reaction I expected." Then he seized both her wrists in his vice like grip, the crowbar clattering to the ground. She'd forgotten how strong he was, despite his thin frame and thinner fingers, so even as she resisted, it didn't take him much to pull her towards him. Against him. His hipbones, so familiar, like a fantasy come to life, dug into hers. He grinned at her again with those bloody teeth. She'd hit him hard, Jess reflected with pride. It had probably _hurt. Good._

"I was just getting used to this place without you," she told him lowly, voice shaking with suppressed rage. "And now you come in and _fuck it up_." The Joker's eyebrows popped up and his grin grew wider. Jess had to suppress a fucked up rush of affection for the man, but then he began to chuckle. She hated it when he laughed at her. She _hated _it.

She hated _him_.

"Oh, come on, _doll_," he said. One of his hands, in a flash, gripped her chin and turned her mouth forcibly toward his to press his open lips against her. His kiss was hungry, violent, tasting of blood, a stark greeting that spoke of anticipation and repressed lust. It was like a dream she'd had. Or many dreams. He said "mwah!" as he broke away with a smack of their lips, smiling victoriously and mischievously, still gripping her chin in his hand. He was holding her to him by the small of her back, something possessive in his stance as his dark eyes flicked unsteadily over the room.

With a bolt of panic, Jess turned her head to Ian, who was still glued to the couch, eyes wide with confusion, pain and horror. She felt a pang of regret for Ian, but the speed with which it was swallowed by her attention to the Joker's appearance was quite brutal. Ian. Who was Ian? Sweet and artistic, but no Joker. Not even close.

God, what was she feeling? Anger, of course, first and foremost, but bubbling in her gut so greedily she could scarce ignore it was a rising joy.

_I was wrong. I wasn't over him. How do you ever get _over_ him?_

She wanted to be, though. More than anything, she wished his touch didn't send shivers down her spine. She wished she look into his eyes and not want to meld with him. Why couldn't he just _let her go_?

He was thinner, stringier than she'd left him; his hipbones jutted against hers, warm through the silk shirt. He hadn't been eating and, if the dark circles under his eyes were any indication, not sleeping either. But he smelled the same—masculine deodorant, sweat and adrenaline, the clinging hint of gasoline. And his arms around her were just as insistent, just as sure. He was examining her, swaying a little, the hint of a smile playing around his lips.

"Miss me, _sugar_?" he said, words dripping as ever with irony. Jess was breathless; she had no idea how to respond to that question. How she'd missed him. How she'd hated him and cursed him and sobbed for him. How angry she was, and how just touching him made that anger roil in disgusting synergy with deep desire.

She pulled away from him but he forced her forward again, inhaling sharply as his hand came up to grab her chin. He was close enough to feel his breath against her face, waiting tensely for a response.

"You left," Jess whispered, staring him right in the eyes, refusing to be intimidated. "You _died_."

The Joker leaned back, raising his eyebrows in surprise, as if to say _that's news to me._

"Died?" he asked, beginning to chuckle. Jess twisted against him but his grip held strong, even as laughter shook his shoulders. "_Died_?!" He let out a long, high pitched wheezing guffaw. "Where - where did you get _that_ idea? Do I look _dead _to you?" He pulled her against him again to stop her struggling, the grin dropping off his lips in an instant as their faces got close. "No. _No._" The vicious growl was frightening enough that she _did_ stop fighting for a moment. "_You_ left, Jesster. _You_."

He leaned away,and slowly reached into his jacket to bring out his little carving knife, positioning it directly under her jaw. Jess inhaled sharply as she felt the sharp tip prick against the delicate skin there, the pressure increasing and decreasing with the shakiness of his hand. Jess tried to get over the fear, replace it with the violent, familiar anger that seemed ever present. But she was reacting to his proximity, to the horrible beauty of his face, to all the longing she'd felt for him. She wanted to kiss him and slit his throat and fuck him and beat him and bruise him. And there was something else - the fluttering of her heart that told her she was _happy_ somehow. Happy that he'd traveled all this way just for her. That he was _angry_ that she'd left. That he _wanted her back_.

Happy and furious.

"Didn't say _goodbye_, either," the Joker said, cradling her head with the hand that didn't hold the knife to her, coming so close their noses almost touched. "_What_ am I supposed to make of _that_?" He smacked his lips and gave her head a little shake. "_Hm_?"

"Make of it what you want," Jess said, trying but failing to keep her voice from wavering. "And get the fuck out of here. _Sugar_." From somewhere behind her, she heard Blake snort under his breath in disbelief. The Joker's eyes flicked towards him with annoyance, but Jess vaguely echoed his sentiment. Where did she get the shit that popped out of her mouth?

"_I_ think," said the Joker, licking his lips, "I oughta cut that _pretty little_ mouth off." Quickly, violently, he pulled her close to him and growled, "Would you _like_ that?" Jess didn't have an answer to that, at least not one that wouldn't get her seriously injured. She just stared at him, wanting to look like she wasn't afraid.

The Joker pulled away and looked at her funny, as if trying to recognize her, as he chewed on his cheeks.

"You're different," he decided, and smirked a little, chuckling wheezily. "I like it. Scared little Jesster put on her brave face. Was that, uh, _my _influence?" Jess snorted.

"What _influence_?" Wow that might have been the biggest lie she'd ever told. And she said it looking directly into the eyes of the only person who _knew_ she was bullshitting. He laughed at it, too.

"Oh," he said, looking at her like she was just the cutest thing. It pissed her off. What was it going to take for him to take her _seriously_? How many more people did she have to kill to earn his respect? "Now don't hurt my feelings, _puddin_'. _You_ and I_ both _know what you went though to get here. You need me." He licked his lips and leaned forward close, to whisper gruffly into her ear. "I _made_ you."

Seizing his opportune proximity, because she knew she might not get another chance, Jess swiftly and violently kneed the Joker in the gut. He wheezed and backed away, allowing her to slip behind him, towards the front door. Josh stepped in front of her, but she dodged him, watching in her periphery as other men stepped forward. But she was quick. She dodged Laurence, too, before finding the doorknob and slipping out into the night.

She was sprinting by the time her feet met the front lawn, hearing shouts behind her as men called her name and gave chase. Luckily it had all happened so quickly that she had time to jump in Ian's truck - keys still in the ignition - and roar out of the driveway. She glanced in the rearview mirror to see three men giving chase on foot. Jess distinctly saw Blake in the lead, jogging down the street after the truck... but none were jumping into the cars parked there.

Feeling deeply ominous about what that meant, Jess sped down the street, leaving the lights, the voices, Ian and the Joker behind.

* * *

**Review please! Am I doing it right?**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey guys! Happy chapter 7.**

**Sorry about the wait. The new quarter of school hit, and it hit hard. I'm knee deep in microbiology and conservation, so I haven't had a ton of time to write. But here it is!**

**I guess I should warn you, the violence in this chapter is only to be followed by more. This story isn't going in a direction that's as light or fun as YCS was. I'm not going to hold back on any disturbing ideas that pop into my brain. I figure if I can imagine it, no matter how dark or twisted, the Joker is capable of it.**

**So anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

Pay my respects to grace and virtue  
Send my condolences to good  
Give my regards to soul and romance  
They always did the best they could  
And so long to devotion  
You taught me everything I know  
Wave goodbye  
Wish me well  
You gotta let me go

-The Killers, "Human"

It was as she sped down the early morning freeway, watching city lights disappear in the rearview, when Jess finally broke down . For the past fifteen minutes, she'd been so overwhelmed with adrenaline, fear, and anger that her only thoughts were of escape. But now, far enough from immediate danger to calm herself and reflect, she felt a terrible weight in her chest.

She gasped, gasped again, and started to bawl, the tears hot and heavy, flowing despite her desire for them to stop. After a good ten minutes of a pounding head and uncontrollable blubbering, she finally decided to simply let loose - thinking perhaps a cry would do her good - and her wails filled the cab of the truck. It was relieving, somehow. But it also brought the experience back.

Details seared through her skull in vivid bursts – his hands clutching her hips, the smell of his breath and sweat, the taste of his greasepaint, his words.

"_I made you_."

The tears were clouding her vision, the brutal gasps for air and these garish thoughts distracting her attention from the road. But she had to keep going, put as much distance as she could between her and them.

"How is this possible?!" she asked aloud, desperately, as though someone would hear and respond. For a moment her words echoed dully in the cab, and Jess thought fleetingly that _his_ voice might answer. Like he was sitting in the back seat. _Hoped_ even. God, how crazy was that? How crazy was this whole fucking mess? How was he _alive_ for one thing? She'd seen him. She'd seen him fall. Was he some kind of mad god, jumping between universes and resurrecting from the dead?

And what did he want with her? He'd answered that once – "Do you really think I cared who you were, as long as you were different?" – but it was ancient history now. Too much had happened since. That couldn't be why he was seeking her out again. Why he'd come all this way, spent all this energy... kissed her. A queer pride rested uneasily alongside the fear and horror. _I'm special_, she thought, sobbing. But whether that was good or bad, she couldn't decide.

A dinging sound suddenly rang from the truck. Sniffling, wiping wet eyes, Jess looked down to the gas gauge, where she saw the needle was hovering over Empty.

"_Fuck_," she hissed, banging a flat palm against the steering wheel. She hadn't brought any fucking money, too bent on escape to consider such minor specifics. Furious, Jess exited the freeway into Issaquah, not nearly far enough from the city. She cursed and drummed her fingers as she looked for a place to park and try to decide what to do.

Sudden inspiration hit as she pulled into the lot of a strip mall and stopped the car. Turning around, Jess lunged into the back and groped frantically under the seat. Soon her hands met leather and, triumphant, Jess withdrew the little sleepover bag she'd taken to keeping in Ian's car. Inside was a pair of pajamas, a toothbrush, hairbrush, makeup, a crumpled sweater, and a wallet.

Used to be, she'd kept a large grand in that wallet. But her hopes quickly dropped away as she opened it and realized she hadn't restocked since borrowing Ian's truck for an emergency coke pick up. Jackson had reimbursed her, but she'd spent all but fifty dollars, and hadn't replaced the rest.

Jess bit her lip. Fifty dollars would get her a full tank of gas, but not much else.

The tears drying on her face, feeling weary and alone, Jess put ten bucks in the tank and drove for another twenty minutes before finally pulling off in the tiny mountain town, Snoqualmie. She wound down an unpaved street, surrounded by green trees and chirping night insects, before finding a building that looked abandoned, along a wild stretch of road in the deep woods

She climbed in a broken first story window, to a grafittied, litter strewn logging factory, long closed. Jess found a corner that was a little dryer than the rest, where she could put her back to the wall and keep her eye on the door. She spread out Ian's old picnic blanket, sat down, and started to weep again, this time quietly. She didn't even care how pathetic she was being. No one was here to see the vulnerability.

She was exhausted, stressed out and, for the first time in over a year, completely alone. Not only were her guys not at her back, but she'd made an enemy of every single one.

_No. That's not true. _They_ made enemies of _me_._

But she'd be lying if she said she didn't want them here. Blake especially. For all his betrayal, seeing him had made her realize how much she'd missed him, how huge the hole in her chest had been during his absence. For a long time as she dozed off, sitting upright against a concrete wall in a musty abandoned building, Jess fantasized watching Blake climb through the window, look around for a moment in the dim light of growing dawn, and smile widely when he saw her. She imagined him coming over and putting his arms around her, warming her, telling her everything was fine. She'd always felt safe with Blake.  
Jess fell asleep holding herself, tears drying on her face, forgetting for the moment just how much trouble she was in.

* * *

"That didn't go very well, did it?"

Blake, Billy and Laurence stood outside Jackson's house, smoking cigarettes as the sun began to peek above the trees. The boss was still inside, with his gang and their new captive - the terrified, skinny black haired kid in the Pokemon shirt. They'd designated this as base for the time being, at least until they could get back to the city the Joker really cared about.

And they _were_ going back to Gotham - the boss had been very clear about that. This was a pit stop, a pause in the plans, the calm before the storm. The clown had taken the news of Jess's resistance without so much as blinking, but he'd led them through the portal again himself, mentioning something along the lines of "if you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself."

He'd never forget what the Joker had said when they stepped out into the parking lot in Chicago, after taking a deep breath and looking up to the midnight sky:

"Home sweet home."

Only his living presence hadn't swayed Jess. Blake didn't know what he'd imagined might happen when the Joker presented himself to her, but it wasn't that. He'd been expecting, maybe, for her to burst into tears and run into his arms. Or, like, shake and sob and plead for forgiveness. Not slap his face and knee him in the gut.

_That_ was an image he'd never forget, either. It still made him chuckle - the sheer audacity and bravery of the act was unbelievable. Not many people could take a swing at the clown and live to tell about it.

But instead of ordering out the guns and demanding they give chase, the Joker had simply watched Jess leave with an expression of bemusement. He'd held up a halting hand when his men ran out the door, telling them not to worry about it. They'd find her.

"Not well at all," Billy agreed. Blake was pleased to see his old friend again, even looking this haggard and haunted. His auburn hair was messy and getting too long, and dark rings bruised the skin beneath his eyes. Doubtless, on some level, he was horrified that this was happening. But another part of him was relieved that he wasn't going to suffer any punishment for running in the first place - as far as Blake knew. Then again, could be the Joker would just slaughter the deserters after all.

He hoped not.

"I thought she'd be happy to see us," Laurence said with a touch of the bitterness Blake understood very well. "Stupid bitch. Where exactly does she think she's gonna hide?"

Blake and Billy shrugged. The other men were expressing irritation with Jess, too - the general consensus was that she was a waste of time and they should just leave her, or kill her and be done with it. Blake held his tongue - not liking this line of thought - but the Joker had shushed them roughly.

"She's coming back," he'd said, sounding not like he was guessing, but like this was something he already knew. And then he'd shrugged and added, "And if she doesn't, she'll be twitching in a pool of her own blood."

No one questioned the Joker as to why he felt she was so necessary. Blake thought he had to have a reason, though, and it probably wasn't just the sex thing. Jess fascinated the boss, like a kid who'd just trapped a strange beetle. He wanted to poke and prod and experiment, see how far he could take things, how much she'd let him mold her. Blake was trying to swallow the awful mix of disgust and jealousy he felt at that sentiment. _I'm a bad man_ he thought, and not for the first time.

Upon reentering the house, Blake found the Joker approaching the kid on the couch, who looked like he was going to puke or faint or both. Blake had no idea who this guy was, but he assumed he was some kind of friend of Jess's. They'd bound his hands, one of which was tattooed with some stupid symbol that looked like it might have come out of the Satanic Bible or something. Or more likely a video game. He was shaking and pale and silent, eyes darting in all directions but unerringly coming back to rest on the Joker, with his scars and his knives and his crowbar - which he was now twirling around like a brutal baton, making the boy flinch every time it whizzed past his nose.

The boss waved Blake over, gestured to the captive, and immediately turned to pace into the kitchen.

"What's your name, kid?" Blake asked, interpreting the boss's command. He stepped in front of the couch and crossed his arms. The boy gasped at suddenly being addressed and his eyes darted up to Blake, even more blood draining from his face (if that was possible). It took him a long moment to swallow, and open his mouth to reply.

"Ian," he said hoarsely, licking his lips nervously. "I- Ian Montgomery."

"So what are you doing here, Ian?" Blake asked. Ian gaped like a fish. "Billy and Jackson don't seem to know."

"Jess - Jess invited me," Ian said. His voice rose in pitch and frequency, squeaking like a mouse. "We were just hanging out, I swear! Please, please, I swear we were just hanging out. I don't... She doesn't... We were just chilling!"

"Whoa whoa whoa," Blake said, taking a step toward him. "Don't get defensive on me. We're just talking here."

"I'm not," Ian said, trying to assure him. "Defensive. I'm not. Sorry."

"When did you meet Jess?"

"Like… five m-months ago."

"Where?"

"W-where we met? At the gun range. Where I work." So Jess _had_ been practicing...

The Joker reappeared with a cup of coffee and leaned against the kitchen doorway, hunched and dangerous. He didn't like this kid - Blake saw that from the way he was staring at him. His jaw was working, his chin tilted down. Like he had murder on the mind.

Blake gestured to him.

"Do you know who he is?" he said. Ian glanced nervously at the Joker and looked like he might have an idea, like he did recognize the boss, even without the face paint - the scars, the hair, the posture, the voice. But he knew it couldn't be. Because that was fucking crazy and stupid. He shook his head.

The Joker chuckled, high pitched and wheezy, through pursed lips. He pushed away from the doorframe and paced toward Ian.

"She didn't _tell_ you about me?" he asked. He looked up to Blake with a looking of mocking disbelief. "I'm hurt."

"I can't imagine why she wouldn't," Blake said, chuckling. The Joker's mouth twitched. "That's the boss, kid. My boss, your boss. So you should stay on your best behavior. Got it?" Ian nodded vigorously. He was definitely going to puke soon.

Chuckling a little, Blake pointed to the tattoo on the boy's hand. "So what's that?"

Ian was very surprised by the query. His eyes darted down, then back to Blake, then to his hand again, over and over as though he wasn't sure the question had even been addressed to him.

"Yeah, the tattoo," Blake said, figuring if he got the kid a little calmed down, he'd be more understandable. Easier to talk to. "What is it?"

"Th-the Deathly H-hallows symbol," Ian stuttered, absolutely panicking now. Blake threw him a blank look. "H-Harry Potter," Ian forced out. "It's in Harry Potter."

"Jesus Christ," Blake muttered, both at the helpless stuttering and the sheer stupidity of what he'd just heard. The boy had a tattoo of a symbol from a book. And not just a book, a children's book. _Those books are for children._

Disgusted, giving up on this worthless interrogation - the kid knew absolutely nothing - Blake turned back to the Joker.

"We're not gonna have a problem with this one," he told him, stepping closer. "He's a, uh... bit of a pussy. To put it lightly." The boss chewed at his scars, glancing at Ian like he wanted to rip him to pieces. There was a long pause as he worked his jaw, staring at the boy darkly.

"Does she _like_ this kid?" the Joker asked suddenly, in a hushed tone, bouncing on his heels as he turned back to Blake, looking anxious. It took Blake aback, truth be told, because for a moment it didn't seem like the boss was just curious. It sounded like he wanted to be reassured or something. Was he jealous?

Blake shrugged and glanced back to Ian, feeling a rumble of anger towards the boy too. Jess better not have gotten that close to this guy. What was so special about some asshole in a fucking Pokemon shirt, nearly pissing himself at the sight of a gun?

"The way she ran off," he said, as much for himself as the Joker, "I doubt it. Didn't even glance at the guy from the time you walked in the door." He had no idea, but it seemed best to try to calm the boss.

Surprisingly, however, the Joker frowned and "hm'd" at this. He stared at the boy for a long time, jaw working restlessly, and finally broke into a wide grin.

"No," he said. "She _did_ look at him, Blakey. Good _point_ though." He clapped Blake on the shoulder, grinning viciously, teeth still red from Jess's violent greeting. "Now we have a little _incentive_.

* * *

Jess didn't know how long she'd slept, sitting upright against a cold concrete wall, but when she opened her eyes shadows were stretching long across the dusty floor, and the low hum of crickets echoed through the huge room. She wasn't sure what had woken her. She still felt tired, sore thanks to her position, and strangely disoriented, despite being fully aware of her situation.

There was a long moment of silence as the shadows deepened and evening grew. A chill swept up Jess's back. She straightened and looked around, breath getting shallow. She felt watched. And the longer she sat there in the quiet, the surer she was that a _sound_ had woken her.

"Who's there?" she called out, thinking as the words left her lips that she was being foolish, paranoid. She was in an abandoned building in the woods. No way anyone had found her.

But then there was a shuffling behind a large piece of machinery and Jess froze, cold horror sweeping over her. She shrank back against the wall, pulled her knees to her chest, and watched a tall shadow step into the light of the rising moon.

"It's just me, princess." His hands were raised in surrender, showing her he had no gun, but as soon as Blake took a step toward her Jess skittered away, bracing her hands against the wall.

"Stop," Blake said with a warm chuckle of amusement. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Jesus."

"I'm not going back," Jess replied loudly, stopping with her back to the wall, wishing she had her gun. Blake stepped into the light of the moon streaming through a hole in the ceiling. For the first time, Jess thought how he looked better than he had in Gotham. It could merely have been that irritating desire to see him, but he looked like he'd gained strength and presence. Like he'd found himself, just as Jess was completely losing grip on who she was. He was an impressive sight, standing there in black. She couldn't recall when he'd ever _impressed_ her just by standing there before. The way the Joker did.

"Honestly," Blake replied, shrugging, "I don't really care." Despite herself, Jess felt the sting of pain at those words. But he was _lying_. She narrowed her eyes at him. She could play this game, the game of manipulation the Joker was so skilled at. He must have picked up a few tricks from the _boss_. The Blake she'd known in Gotham had been honest to a fault, hardly able to keep anything from her. But, like her, he seemed to be learning.

"Oh come on, Blake," she said, forcing her tone low and silky when all she wanted to do was scream at him. But she couldn't let him know how much his apathy hurt. Even though _he was lying_. "Of _course_ you care." She straightened and made herself take a step away from the wall, toward him, head tilted down as she met his eyes. Her approach startled him. He took half an involuntary step back, but then lowered his arms and grinned at her, teeth glimmering white in the moonlight.

"Look at you," he said. "Boss was right. Brave face and all that." Irritated, Jess stopped in her tracks.

"Stop _quoting_ him," she said. "Christ, I thought _I_ was the one with the crush." A degree of malice spread its way through Blake's grin.

"You are, kid," he said. "But he's not terribly happy with you. Jealous?"

Taking a deep breath to quell the fury in her gut, Jess said as calmly as she could, "You men can't take a hint, can you? I left. That means get the fuck out of my life. That does _not_ mean come look for me."

"I know," Blake conceded. "But he wants you to come back."

"What the Joker wants isn't always what the Joker gets," Jess said, knowing that wasn't true. Knowing it was quite the opposite. Blake didn't reply to that, except to smile in a bitter way that let her know his thoughts echoed hers. She sighed. "Anyway, what are you? His little errand boy?"

Blake grimaced. "This is more than a little errand," he said. "You'd better come with me. We've got Ian."

For a moment the words didn't register. What did that mean? Who?

Then, with a growing horror, the image flashed through her mind of pale, black haired, sweet, normal Ian sitting on the couch as armed thugs filed through the door.

Of course they did. Of course they had Ian. Jesus. She hadn't even thought about him.

Jess let a hysterical giggle escape and she clapped a hand to her mouth, feeling both horrified with herself and helplessly amused. _Oh fuck_, she thought, giggling again. Blake was staring at her.

"Did you _hear_ me?" he said. "Your little boyfriend. Ian. We've got him." He waited for a response, but Jess couldn't really think of one. Though she did have that feeling that came with knowing she was a terrible person, she simply couldn't muster up concern for him.

She knew they might kill him – most likely would. But what exactly could she do about that at this point? She had a hard time believing the Joker would simply let Ian go, even if she did slink back to him with her tail between her legs. The guy was dead. He shouldn't have pushed his way into her life in the first place.

Still, a dull tremor ran through her as she stood there and told Blake, "Get out." Like shock and regret were rearing their ugly heads. Especially as Blake stood silent, staring at her as though she was a complete stranger. _Guilt is a worthless feeling_ she thought, meeting his eyes boldly.

Finally, Blake let out a derisive huff of laughter and shrugged. He looked back to the window, through which he'd undoubtedly entered, then again to her. Slowly, he raised a finger and pointed at her.

"You'd better get your goddamn priorities in line," Blake said. He almost turned around to leave, but stopped himself and spun back to her. "You think the boss is just gonna kill the kid?" He stepped closer, still pointing, mouth a firm, thin line. "You know what? I didn't think I'd even have to fucking say this. But the boss said to tell you, this kid is gonna suffer. This kid you've known for five months. He's gonna live in _agony_. And every day he suffers – every _second_, Jesster – is because of _you_."

There was nothing else that could be said after that. Both of them were speechless. After a long moment, Blake simply turned around and walked towards the window.

When he was gone, Jess sank onto Ian's picnic blanket and hugged her knees to her chest. Night was setting in, and it seemed colder than ever. She couldn't process what Ian must be going through. Blake's words had an effect but she wasn't sure what it was. She felt empty. Melancholy. Hopeless.

No matter what her decision was on Ian, the fact was, right now she was cold, broke and sitting in an abandoned warehouse. But she couldn't go back to the Joker. That was not an option. What would he do to her? What would her punishment be? _What did he want_?

He was far more than she was capable of dealing with. Far more than she'd ever _wanted_ to deal with. Why was he forcing his way into her life, at every twist and turn? No matter where she ran, it seemed, he found her.

He _found_ her.

_How had he found her?_

Panicked, Jess scrambled to her feet, easily boiling over into hysteria as the weight of the last few hours caught up with her. She snatched up the blanket, shook it out, found nothing, then went to work emptying her bag, searching for any kind of tracking device. Not that she had any idea what that looked like.

She found nothing but eighteen cents and a bag of weed at the bottom of her bag, so she quickly patted across her shirt, in her coat pockets. Her hands were shaking badly, her breath coming in short bursts as she found nothing, nothing, _nothing_. Finally, she thrust her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

She froze. Shuddering uncontrollably, Jess pulled from her back pocket something black and plastic, the size of a matchbox. A little green light blinked defiantly at her from the upper left corner. The Joker must have slipped it into her jeans when they'd kissed. Or when he'd whispered into her ear. Or before that _what the fuck did it matter_?

With a scream of rage, Jess threw the tracking device as hard as she could at the concrete ground. It shattered, raining microchips and wires. She let herself stand there for a second, crying furiously, before turning around and roughly stuffing everything back into the bag. Her hands shook as she bundled up the blanket, lit a cigarette, and stomped towards the truck. They wouldn't find her next time.

* * *

The next night, Blake found himself once again speeding down the highway out of Seattle. They'd given Jess a full twenty-four hours to change her mind - remarkably patient of the Joker, actually - but all she'd done was move farther into the woods surrounding Snoqualmie. Stupid girl.

But this time he had something that might wake her out of that idiotic pride. Blake glanced guardedly at the shoe box in the passenger seat beside him, stomach turning at the thought of what was inside. The boss had been nearly hysterical for a good hour, and he'd visited Ian's little room multiple times. He was worse than Blake had seen in a while - talking to himself, laughing, jumping around, barely making any sense when they tried to speak to him. He said Jesster's name a lot, mumbled things about her that sounded ominously like plans.

He'd been adamant on one thing, however, as he'd come from Ian's room the final time, blood stained and considerably calmed - she _was _coming back. No matter what her reaction was to this, she was coming back. And _did Blake understand?_

He followed the blinking red light on his GPS deep into the wooded hills of Snoqualmie County, past the abandoned warehouse Jess had camped in last night. She'd only gone about ten more miles, and he laughed as he pulled up to a conspicuous red truck parked just off the road. He bushwacked a bit down what he assumed was an old game trail, cursing the brambles and tall wet grass. The GPS tracker ended at the truck, but she couldn't have gone far.

Sure enough, soon he arrived at a tumbledown little shack in a small clearing. She'd lit a fire inside, the resourceful thing, and its smoke billowed out the gaping hole in the ceiling. Clutching the shoebox, Blake strode up to the front door.

Jess looked up from him as he pushed open the door, her look one of irritation and resignation. She seemed tired, sunken eyed and rumpled. Her white blond hair was a mess, her clothes stained and dirty.

"How many goddamn tracking devices do you have on me?" she asked in a hoarse voice.

"It would kinda defeat the purpose if I told you that, wouldn't it?" he said, lip twitching. "Can I come in?" She motioned vaguely, calm and tired, and he shut the door behind him. She wasn't going to be difficult, he could tell already.

But, as ever, she was going to be stubborn first. "I'm not going back," she said.

"Jesus, Jess," Blake replied. "How long you think you can keep running?" Jess sighed.

"As long as I can."

"Fine," Blake said, mouth hardening. He was just going to do this. She was coming back, goddammit, and he wasn't going to make another trip out to bumfuck nowhere to see that she did. "Why don't you take a look at this."

Blake bent down and slid the shoebox across the dusty floor, where it skidded to her feet. She bent forward, picked it up, and took off the lid.

The look on her face was not the one he'd expected. There was no horror, no fear. Disgust crossed her face first, but she didn't toss it across the room as Blake might have . Then her features softened as she stared at it, wide eyes latched on, unable to tear away. An unfathomable look crossed her face again, and she reached into the box to pull out the gift he'd given her.

A long fingered white hand shone in the moonlight, dead fingers curled in rigor mortis, dark dried blood still staining the stump at the wrist. On its palm, just over the pad of the thumb, was a symbol in black that Blake had been told was from the Harry Potter books.

The fact that Jess was gripping the dead white flesh, holding it to eye level, was enough to make Blake shrink back from the sight. She was touching it, holding it like it was a trophy. And a tiny smile lifted the corner of her lips.

"He sent this?" she asked in a soft, almost reverent tone, turning Ian's dismembered hand over in her palm.

"He said tomorrow you'd get the other one," Blake said. "The foot the day after that, and so on. You get the drift." Jess didn't reply, her eyes dropping back to the severed hand in her lap. She was silent for a long moment. There were many reasons she would come back. Even if the Joker cutting Ian's hand off didn't convince her, she was still cold, tired and probably hungry. She was broke, too. She wouldn't say no this time.

After a long moment, Jess said, "He really wants me back, doesn't he?"

The question crushed Blake. It wasn't the conclusion he'd hoped she'd dwell on. He wanted to see some personal weakness, some desperation, certainly some empathy and guilt. But no. She wasn't focusing on Ian's pain or her selfish part in it. She was focusing, as always, on the Joker.

Blake simply nodded. Because it was true. The boss didn't just want her back - he demanded it.

Gingerly, Jess set the dead hand back in its shoebox and replaced the lid. Then she stood up and began to gather her things.

"You're coming?" Blake said, mildly surprised. Jess shrugged, glancing up to him with the beginnings of a smile.

"It doesn't really seem like I have a choice."

* * *

Jess's heart started pounding as soon as they crossed the bridge into Seattle, and suddenly she was wondering whether this was the right idea after all. Ian's hand, in its little shoebox, was resting on her lap, and she gripped it tightly. In some ways, it was the most significant thing she'd ever received. It wasn't just a dismembered hand. It was a symbol, she thought. She _knew _it was. A mark of _respect_. Not merely a threat - though it was certainly threatening - but he was telling her something as well. He was telling her that he wanted her back.

He was willing to go this far, to follow her everywhere she went and send her these macabre gifts. He wouldn't stop, she understood that now. Not until she had returned or she was dead. And, as much as it frightened her, Jess was strangely... touched.

_He cares about me_, she thought, staring out the window. They'd left Ian's gasless red truck deep in the woods, opting instead to ride together in Blake's black Jaguar. _He cares this much. He wants me back. He wants me._

She was a bundle of both anxiety and excitement as they paced across the front lawn. Truthfully, she wanted to see him again. Memories of Gotham raced through her head - watching him, exhilarated and laughing; giggling at his jokes; the darker, deeper times, when she looked into his fiery eyes and found something beneath the clown. Away from the anger, the regret and grief and impotence, she missed him. In a way she hadn't allowed herself to miss him for months.

The feelings hadn't gone anywhere. They'd simply been swallowed up in depression.

And suddenly they were on the front porch and she was too close to turn back now. Slowly, Blake opened the front door, and ushered Jess into the warmth of Jackson's front hall.

"Ah," the Joker said the instant they entered, turning and striding quickly towards them from where he'd been waiting the living room. His arms were spread wide, as though welcoming her into an embrace. He was tall, thin and powerfully beautiful. Jess's heart jumped when his eyes turned on her.

Then she noticed the fury in his eyes.

"You're back," he said, still coming toward her. There was violence in every step. Suddenly frightened, Jess opened her mouth to say something as Blake let go of her arm, but the Joker didn't give her time.

Quick as a flash, he seized her roughly by the back of the neck and dragged her across the entryway with him. Jess let out a strangled curse and raised her hands to struggle, but he slammed her backwards into the wall, hard enough to knock the breath from her. She felt hairs rip from the nape of her neck half a second before his knee smashed into her gut, and then she was bent over gasping and crying, in so much pain she could have vomited. The Joker leaned over her back to brace a hand against the wall, watching her, and burst into hysterical wheezing laughter. He bounced giddily on the balls of his feet.

"Welcome _home_!" he said, bending down to bring his face close to Jess's. She tried to hide behind her arms as she regained breath but, laughing, he gripped a chunk of her hair and pulled her upright. He met her eye, streaming tears, for half a second. Just long enough for her to fear what was coming.

The Joker slammed her head against the wall. _Hard_. Suddenly Jess's world was swimming violently, her ears ringing, so disoriented she couldn't even feel the pain at the base of her skull for a moment as her arms hung limply by her sides.

Just after the agony of the knock to the head split through Jess, his bony fist crashed into her face. Then again, and again. The third blow was so brutal she literally saw stars, bright white against a black field, and heard herself scream in a wet, gargled sort of way. She gasped an intake of breath – strangely difficult – and then she was sitting on the floor, though she didn't remember her legs giving out.

The thought flashed through her mind, _I don't think he's ever beat me this hard_. It felt like her face was bleeding, but she was so dizzy she couldn't find her face with her hand to check.

"Boss…" Blake's voice swam in from somewhere in the immediate vicinity. Then she was vaguely aware that they were moving again, the Joker's fingers clasping her arm as he dragged her forcibly to her feet. He didn't reply to Blake. He gripped the back of her neck and drove her through the living room, swerving around the men standing there, drawn by the racket. Then it occurred to her to struggle, and she weakly lifted her arms. She spit out a few curses and clawed at his hands before he pushed her hard into Jackson's room.

Jess bumped face first to the floor and flipped onto her back, pulse racing. The Joker towered over her, feet planted wide, backlit by the light from the living room. He was staring down at her, no longer smiling, running his tongue along his lips. His eyes flicked over her form as though he was deciding where to start.

For a moment, Jess's glance darted to the room behind him, where Blake stood a yard away, also staring, eyebrows creased. Then, as ever, she looked back to the Joker. The very image of power.

Lips twisted halfway between a grimace and a smile, he met her eyes. Slowly, he bent his knee and kicked the door closed behind him.

It was dimmer in Jackson's room, with the shades closed and the light from the living room gone. There was a long moment of tense silence as they looked at each other. Jess licked her bloody lips, gaining defiance with every breath.

"_Fuck_ you," she spat. Then they both moved at once.

He was spry, quick as a dog after the scent, and Jess was still a little dizzy and distracted by pain. She scrambled to her feet and got two steps before the Joker was on her, gripping both of her wrists and grinning widely. He drove her backwards onto the bed and planted a knee beside her hip. Roughly shoving her onto her back, he forced her hands high above her head and knelt over her, then crawled up to straddle her waist.

She thrashed wildly beneath him, head pounding with her heart, but he subdued her without much effort. He was absolutely physically superior to her she thought as his scarred, terrible, beautiful face hovered over hers. It wasn't as if she could win the fight with him, but goddammit she'd try.

He started to hum breathlessly, whimsical and toneless, as he transferred both her wrists into one hand. Easily, so easily, as though she was a ragdoll under him.

Sitting upright and still humming, the Joker fished with his free hand in the inner pocket of his black jacket. She started to struggle harder as soon as he did so, knowing before the knife even came out that it was what he was reaching for.

Still, she wasn't ready for the size of it. In the past, he'd threatened her with his carving knife which, though extremely effective, was quite small. This blade was a good five inches long, thin and gleaming sharp. She let out a little scream, fighting wildly.

"Ooh hoo hoo hoo," the Joker wheezed at her reaction, breathless with adrenaline. He bounced on his knees and brought the knife tip to her cheek with a shaky hand. "I think we oughta have a _talk_." He scraped the tip of the knife slowly down her cheekbone in a vertical line. Jess whined, unsure whether or not it was breaking skin until she clearly saw a little bead of blood trickle across her nose.

Jess tried wildly to rip her wrists from his grip, letting out a furious roar (for lack of a better term) and for the first time succeeded in getting one hand loose. The Joker's face dropped into deadpan irritation as he was forced to abandon his slicing and reach up to subdue her again. Only this time he pulled a ziptie from his jacket.

One of her wrists bent too far the wrong way as forced her hands up against the thin metal bars on the bed's backboard, and she yelped in pain. But then his pressure decreased, and suddenly she was tied to the bed, the plastic cord digging into both wrists.

Helplessness washed over Jess, and she let out one sob of fury and frustration. But she wouldn't cry. He wouldn't fucking see her cry.

Funny, how promises to oneself so often go awry.

Humming again, The Joker once more bent back to his work on her face, carving slowly. It wasn't deep, but the pain was stinging and intense. He made one rather short cut from just under her left eye to the flesh over her cheekbone, and she learned quickly that the more she moved, the deeper he forced the knife. The first cut only lasted a moment. Finished, he leaned back and carefully surveyed his work. For one split second, Jess almost couldn't believe her luck.

"Y'know," the Joker began, licking his lips and bending back over her, "I appreciate the _dramatic_." Jess started to hyperventilate as he began another slice under the same eye. She sobbed as the skin, already feeling raw and open, was once again tortured. "But all this?" He smacked his lips and looked at her with his 'be reasonable' face. "Just so I could _see_ you again? That's _cold_, Jesster. That's _really cold_." His rough growl startled Jess, and she gasped when he brought the blade back towards himself in a quick arch. She twisted against the zip tie, opening gashes along her wrists where it dug in, to absolutely no avail.

Slowly, casually, the Joker wiped the blood from the knife onto his pant leg. Then he brought the blade back to her face, to the same eye, but this time over her brow.

"No!" she cried, turning her face away from him and burying it as far as she could into the mattress. She felt wetness on her cheek, though whether blood or tears she didn't know. Probably both. The Joker viciously gripped her cheeks in one hand and turned her back to him, leaning close enough that she could feel his breath on her face.

"Oh shh shh shh shh shh," he cooed. "I can't help but think your little _vacation_ got to your head. Like you forget where you _came_ from. Like you forget... who you _are_." He licked his lips and raised his eyebrows at her as though she'd asked a question. "Oh, don't worry. I'll help you remember." He burst into laughter at her expression of horror and quickly sliced her brow, up towards her forehead. Jess cried out and he did it again, this one a bit slower.

Leaning back, he looked at her for a long moment, a shaky hand coming up to cup her face. His thumb slid over the blood that was now pooling into her eye, turning her vision red and half blinding her.

Jess had never felt so powerless, not ever. But it didn't escape her that he wasn't killing her. And for the moment, she was sort of thankful for it. And it was strange, but somehow it seemed appropriate that this was happening. Like, what had she expected?

He kissed her then, with brutality and heat, his tongue forcing its way past her lips – all lust, all fire. In that instant, only in that instant, Jess forgot the blood, the pain. His smell filled her nose, his labored breathing lingered in her ears, his body pressed long against hers. Solid. Real. Alive. It lasted only a moment before he pulled back and immediately placed the tip of the knife under her right cheekbone, under the opposite eye.

Jess let out an anguished sob. _It's happening again. No, no please don't let it happen again_. Those four marks, whatever they were, he was going to repeat them on her right eye. She couldn't take that, she couldn't _do_ it.

But, as ever, the Joker surprised her. Not that it was any better. Actually, the pain was even worse, or perhaps compounded. Her face burned and throbbed. The line he drew in her blood was much longer now, from her right cheekbone in a smooth arc to the delicate skin at the right corner of her lips.

Panicked, Jess tongued the split as soon as he'd pulled his knife away, blood trickling into her mouth. There was a definite gash there, but as she explored her cheeks she found the cut didn't go all the way through the skin. Though pressing on it caused incredible pain, a warm relief flooded through her. He hadn't marked her as he'd been marked. _The cut doesn't go all the way through. The cut doesn't go all the way through. The cut doesn't go all the way through._

In her distraction and pain, she hadn't kept track of what the Joker was doing until she felt his long fingered hands splay across her ribs. He was staring at her torso, calculating and wolfish, and slowly his hands slid up to her breasts, languidly feeling her as her chest heaved. Unrushed and unworried, he traced back down, to the hem of her shirt and underneath. She jolted as his warm hands – much warmer, it seemed, than her skin – made contact with her stomach, her ribs, pulling the shirt up.

He giggled when he noticed how still she'd gotten at these touches, glancing up to meet her eyes with an insinuating look.

"Y'like that?" he asked softly, his voice breaking. Then he lunged closer, an inch from her nose, suddenly looking crazed. "Hm?!" He giggled gleefully at her little gasp when he groped her bare chest, and he took no time in ripping her shirt over her head. The collar dragged across the raw skin on her face, and the burst of pain brought life back to Jess. She once more began to struggle, bucking and squirming under him.

"Oh, I _missed_ you, Jesster," the Joker laughed, roughly running his hands over her skin. He reared up and flipped her quickly onto her side, pausing to trace a palm down the phoenix tattoo – still raw and aching – that weaved from her ribs to her hipbone. "This is new," he said to himself. She couldn't tell if he liked it. She couldn't tell why she cared.

Then she saw a flash of silver as he picked up his knife again. He laughed at her hoarse cries and panicked sobs, dragging the tip of the blade down her ribs. It called to life a pain like scratching a sunburn. He paused a moment to shrug out of his jacket and roll up his sleeves, smacking his lips, a gesture so ominous it dropped her into hysteria. She flailed harder, which did nothing but dig the ziptie deeper into her wrists.

"Don't," she gasped. "No, don't, don't…"

"Don't?" the Joker replied. It was mimicking, mocking. Then once again, harsher, "_Don't_?!" He leaned very close to her. "_I'm_ teaching a little _lesson_ here, Jesster. Reminding you _who_. _You_. _Work for_." He giggled, straightened up, and raised his eyebrows. "You should be thanking me." Again, he burst into laughter, and bent over her.

A horrible pain bit into her side, at the top of her ribs, deeper, much deeper than the lines on her face. It slowly worked its way diagonally across her ribs. She could feel her skin tear with every moment, feel the blood and deliberate torturous anguish. And as the knife continued its bloody caress, seemingly eternal, Jess began to scream.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey guys! First of all, I want to say I'm SOOOO sorry about this huge wait. This quarter wasn't the best for me, but it's summer now and I'm back and better than ever. **

**I really wanted more to happen during this chapter. Honestly, I know it's a little boring, and I'm sorry for that. More excitement down the road, I promise. I wanted to add a little more, ahem, ****_fun _****at the end there. But I haven't written it all yet and anyway, it was getting lengthy and I figured I'd kept you waiting long enough. I hope to post the next chapter relatively soon, especially now that I'm not as busy. **

**I love you all! Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews! Hopefully you stay with me - we have a long road ahead, and boy do I have some plans...**

* * *

Blake stepped outside shortly after the Joker closed himself in that room with Jess. That image of her bruised and bloodied face meeting his eyes with horror and fear from where she'd been thrown to the ground… That wasn't going to let him sleep tonight.

He'd seen the Joker do things far more brutal than what he'd witnessed in that hallway, things that would make your fucking head spin. Acts of unspeakable cruelty and violence. Blake had assisted in some of those acts himself. But Jesus Christ. He'd never seen him beat the shit out of Jessica before.

It made him sick. It made his skin crawl, made him feel a way watching the Joker slice the ear off a cop or carrying a boy's tattooed hand in a shoebox had never made him feel.

And her eyes, looking up at him, already full of pain, knowing more was to come and knowing he wouldn't save her...

Blake kicked the back fence, hard, his steel toed boot splintering the worn wood. He felt responsible. He should have helped her get out, not brought her back. He was a bad man, a terrible human being. Black kicked the fence again with a short bark of fury, then proceeded to suck back two cigarettes.

The screams started as he was pulling a third from his pack, so loud he could hear them outside. Screams of agony and helplessness. Without thinking, Blake dropped the cigarette and burst through the back slider to a living room occupied by men looking like they couldn't give half a shit. Billy and Jackson were absent, but the three who'd come with him from Gotham were there.

Angry, Blake pushed past Peter near the couch as the screams were muffled, by a hand or a pillow. He made a beeline to the door, no plan, just instinct. He didn't know what he'd do when he got in that room, but he'd figure it out once he was there.

Three steps from the door, he was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Blake," Laurence said behind him, and pulled on his shoulder to turn him around. Blake stared at him for a long moment, Jess's screams dying for only a second before starting up again.

He distinctly heard the Joker loudly rasp, "Shut _up_." And then something softer that might have been, "I'm _working_." Still, she continued to scream.

"I mean," Laurence said, shrugging, "he's gonna do what he's gonna do."

It deflated Blake, diffused him. The hero complex receded and reality took hold. Because it was the truth. Blake had never been one to push aside harsh truths.

He sneered at Laurence and shoved past him, pausing on the way out only to grab a set of keys and his leather jacket.

"Where are you going?" Laurence wanted to know. Blake didn't even turn around.

"Drinking," he replied, opening the door and stepping outside.

* * *

Blake didn't return until after the bars closed, around 2:30 am, completely hammered and much happier for it. He hummed as he exited the taxi and swayed across the front lawn, up to a sleeping house.

It wasn't until he'd entered the dark of the front hall and the door clicked behind him that Blake remembered why he'd left.

Silence pressed down on him, and his foggy mind wasn't quite up to the task of processing the entirety of the situation. He put a hand to the wall to keep from stumbling as he made his way into an empty living room.

He avoided looking at the door to the right of the stairs, where they were keeping the handless kid, still alive, still in pain. But he made a beeline towards the door on the left. Jackson's room.

The door was ajar. Blake pushed it further open, to a dark and silent bedroom, where he could vaguely make out a figure curled up on the bed. The boss wasn't in here. Good.

He paced over to the bed, closer to her pale form, and stood above her for a long moment, just listening to the sound of her steady breathing. It was a relief to know she was alive.

Jess stirred. "Blake?" she asked sleepily, starting to sit up, then whimpering softly in pain and laying down again.

"Hey," Blake said, unsure why he'd even come in here and suddenly very aware of how wasted he was. "Did I wake you?" Jess chuckled softly.

"You're drunk," she said teasingly.

"What? No," Blake slurred, and Jess laughed outright at that. "Okay, yes."

"Good," she said, her voice like a kitten purring. "That's good."

"Where's the boss?" he asked.

"He went out," she replied. "You know how he is." Her tone was a little sad, but it didn't carry the anger or bitterness he'd hoped to find there. How could he make her scream, but still maintain her affection? It didn't make sense.

"Hey are you okay?" Blake asked. Jess laughed contemptuously, but at least she was laughing.

"Well I'm not mortally wounded," she said, deep exhaustion licking at her tone. "But I'm gonna scar." She started to laugh, but it dissolved into a choked sob. Blake didn't know what to do. He wanted to help her, but he had no idea how.

"Jesus," he said, running a hand over his hair.

"I'm so tired," Jess said weakly. "But I can't seem to fall asleep."

From behind Blake somewhere, he vaguely heard the sound of the front door opening and closing. Personally, he didn't think anything of it. But in a flash Jess was trying to sit up in the darkness, flurried and panicked. She groaned in pain, but placed her hand on his stomach and tried to push him away.

"You should leave," she said. Blake frowned at her. "He's back, idiot. Go!"

She pushed him again, harder this time, and he took a confused step backwards. It was only when he heard someone bumping around the entryway that he realized what she was talking about.

Swiftly, Blake swooped down and planted a gentle kiss on Jess's forehead. It wasn't the first time he'd kissed her. But back in Gotham he hadn't meant it. It wouldn't be the last time he'd kiss her, either, he promised himself.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, and stumbled out of the room, sneaking upstairs so as not to encounter the boss.

* * *

Jess rolled over, her side screaming in pain, and tried to look like she was sleeping.

She'd found it difficult, in dealing with the swaying peroxide blond drunkard, to swallow a certain bitter resentment she felt, towards him and the other men, especially Jackson and Billy. They'd just stood there, as the Joker had beaten her and thrown her into a bedroom and made her scream.

They'd just stood there and watched, not even lifting a finger to help. Not even saying anything. And then Blake slunk in hours later, hammered off his ass, and treated her like a wounded kitten.

Jess closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to ignore the irritation and the sting of the cuts. She just wanted to get to sleep before J had a chance to come in and bug her further.

Earlier, after he'd finished his slicing, the Joker had jumped off the bed and, humming, cut the zip tie from her wrists. She hadn't moved - too tired to do so, or in too much pain. The exhaustion she'd felt was insurmountable. Every part of her felt drained - physically, mentally, emotionally.

When the Joker had taken gentle hold of her face and turned her took look at him, she'd met his eyes with only blank resignation. She wasn't scared of him, nor was she saddened by the torture he'd just put her through. Jesus, she wasn't even _angry_ with him. She just couldn't muster it.

He'd been right, in any case. She should never have run. She wouldn't make that mistake again.

His mouth had twitched at her facial expression and he'd pushed a blood stained hand through his greasy green hair. He'd no longer been angry with her, either - she'd seen that by the way he'd stared. His fury had been spent, written in the lines of blood criss-crossing up her side, up the inside of her arm, all the way to her wrist. Instead he was calm, his eyes hinting at something like affection (though that was probably just wishful thinking).

He'd told her he was going out as casually as a husband might tell a wife he's leaving to work in the morning. For a moment her mind had transported her to an alternate universe, where a scarless J in a business shirt, boxers and white socks was smiling sweetly after waking her, stroking her face. Where she felt no pain. Where the hand that rested on her cheek wasn't sticky with blood. Where everything was bathed in soft sunlight and they were the functional kind of happy.

For a moment, Jess had almost smiled.

And when the Joker left, she missed him. She wanted him to hold her. She wanted to feel his body against her's and forget the injuries. She wanted him to comfort her, and she wanted to make him happy. Some part of her felt incompetent, that she couldn't seem to. That she simply seemed to make him angry.

Jess thought, laying in the darkness and breathing in the lingering scent of Blake's aftershave, that perhaps she could make him happy. Perhaps, if she tried, he could be content with her. Perhaps she could prove herself. Perhaps he'd never have to do this again.

God. How had she survived the past six months without him?

His footfalls were soft on the carpet as he entered the room, and Jess pretended to be sleeping. Despite all her tender thoughts, she simply did not have enough energy to deal with him right now. The Joker paused by the bed, looking down at her and shifting slightly as he pulled off his jacket. He smelled like rain and sweat, and she felt a dusting of water as he threw his coat over the bedpost.

Jess chanced a peek through her lashes. In the light cast by the moon, the Joker's slender yet solid frame was silhouetted beautifully as he stretched silently, kicked off his boots and ran a hand through soaking tangled curls. He was staring towards the window, and his face was washed in its glow - scarred and pensive, yet so, so handsome.

She was glad for his lack of makeup. The fantasy of that other universe, the functional one, was aided by tan of his skin, the pale pink of his lips - even scarred as they were.

He unbuttoned his shirt, stripping off the wet cotton to reveal that firm torso, those lightly muscled arms - veined and defined and pocked with scars. Jess's half-lidded eyes lingered on the hip bones jutting from beneath belted slacks as he let loose a yawn - something she'd _never_ seen him do - and rub his face fiercely with both hands, then pass one hand over it again for good measure.

His eyes flicked towards her and Jess squeezed her eyes shut. She felt slightly embarrassed to be privy to this bedtime-Joker scenario. It seemed so intimate, so... normal. She still wasn't used to seeing the man beneath the clown.

A short moment later, Jess felt the end of the bed depress as he knelt onto it, careless of the blood stains on the tangled sheets. He climbed over her legs and bounced onto his back beside her with a loud sigh. She was turned away from him, laying on her side with her arm over her head, and she heard him settle against the pillows.

Was he going to sleep? Beside her? An inexplicable surge of butterflies fluttered in her stomach, and she had to control an unwarranted rush of affection. Never had he ever slept beside her.

There was a long moment of silence. And then she felt his fingers, warm and mild, on her shoulder, sweeping slowly down her shoulder blade and across her back. Then the pressure increased as his entire hand moved up over her sore side, under her tanktop, and Jess resisted the urge to twitch under his palm - she was supposed to be sleeping, after all.

The Joker slid his hand over the bloody gashes and crusty scabs, calling to life the sting of the wounds he'd given her. Then he abruptly wrapped his arm around her and pressed himself into her back, cradling her body with his.

She couldn't help a small gasp escape as the Joker pulled her tight against him, too tight, and buried his face deeply in the hair at the nape of her neck. It was an oddly sweet gesture, even though he thought she was asleep and he was taking no pains for her comfort, squeezing her against him like she was a teddy bear or something. He inhaled, long and slow, taking in her scent.

Warmth gushed through Jess, so intense she felt the urge to cry, as the Joker tightened his embrace and nuzzled her like a dog. She nearly expected him to try and wake her, to initiate something rougher, sexier.

But no. Though he wasn't necessarily tender - his arm was like a vice around her waist, pulling her so close to him she could barely breathe - he allowed a stillness, simply holding her in silence. It was so unprecedented, so strange and stark against the violence of their last meeting.

He smelled of sweat and smoke and masculinity. Jess squeezed her eyes shut, anguish mixing with joy as tears eeked between her lashes. His lips brushed her neck again and he exhaled against her, settling his chest against her back, his hips against her ass, all hard angles and veined muscle.

His knees bent to cradle hers, and the fingers of the hand that was draped across her torso played lazily with the shirt on her stomach. And then, unwarranted, unexpected and so, so beautiful, Jess heard the Joker's breathing deepen and steady, and he went still.

After a long while, the softest of snores came from the man behind her, the one with his arms wrapped around her like he never wanted to let her go. And even though the pressure of his embrace caused considerable discomfort against the cuts on her side, Jess relaxed and truly closed her eyes.

Because the Joker, the Ace of Knaves, the Clown Prince of Crime, was sleeping.

* * *

Jess woke up in an empty bed to afternoon sun streaming through the window. For a moment, groggy and tired, she couldn't remember what she was doing in Jackson's room and not her own. Had she slept with him? She felt a flash of panic.

But then she tried to move, and a scream of pain raced up her left side, burned up her arm. She looked down to the red stains on the tangled bed sheets and last night came back to her so vividly she lost her breath.

Her wrist itched unbearably, and when she looked down to her forearm she saw six X's etched up the side in flesh and blood, from elbow to wrist bone. They were scabbing, crusty and itchy and slightly inflamed, but she resisted the urge to tear the scabs off with her nails. She was already going to scar.

Her left elbow was stiff, a bit swollen, and it hurt to bend her arm as the cuts were twisted and pulled taut. Slowly, gently, Jess lifted the stained tank top she wore, wincing as the fabric clung to dried blood and she had to pull it away. Her fingers skimmed over the lacerations up her side. They felt terrible, bumpy and encrusted with blood, raw with pain. She let out a dry sob as her fingers swept along her ribs, tracing the full effect of how badly she'd been mangled.

Then, with a rush of panic, her hands jumped to her face, to her left eyebrow and right cheek. The scabs there didn't feel as bumpy as the ones on her body, but it hurt to put virtually any pressure on her cheekbones.

As slowly as an old woman, Jess shifted to slide off the bed. She felt weak and extremely sore. Lowering her left arm made agony blossom in her armpit and shoulder, and when the scabs on her arm and the scabs on her side rubbed together, they grated against each other like sandpaper.

Jess gingerly paced toward Jackson's bathroom. She had to see. She had to know exactly what he'd done to her.

The woman that gazed back at her from the mirror was one she didn't recognize. Appalling, bloodstained,deeply tired. Her eyes were deep brown chasms, both blackened by the Joker's punches last night. Her lips were cut and swelling and her white hair was tangled and errant and sticky with scarlet at the tips. She looked thin, drawn, very pale.

Dried blood ran in little rivers from the scratches above her eyebrow and up her right cheek, so copious they hid the actual wounds. Jess dampened a cloth with warm water and gingerly wiped away the blood.

She stared at the marks on her face for a long time. Part of her was attempting to come to terms with them, in the event that they were deep enough to scar. Part of her was mourning what he'd done to her face, mourning that she wouldn't have smooth, unmarred flesh anymore. Part of her was very, very angry.

But the face in the mirror showed none of that. The face was still unmoved, emotionless.

She saw what he'd been going for. There was a strange whimsy to the lines, and they were surprisingly neat for how badly his hands shook. A tall, very thin triangle was etched above her left eyebrow, matched underneath by its inverted twin. The overall effect of a skinny diamond across one eye was reminiscent of a mime's classic makeup. _How goddamn fitting_.

The curve up the right cheek was obvious. Half a long, thin jester grin from the corner of her mouth to just under the opposite cheekbone. Half a smile and only the opposite eye marked. The overall asymmetry was startling, quite irritating. She didn't like it. She _hated_ it. God, at the least he should have finished the job.

But her body was worse by far, as she saw when she stripped off the shirt and raised her arm. Her poor phoenix tattoo... It was shredded, unrecognizable under all the blood and the scabbing skin.

The largest X was right on top of her hipbone - she remembered it as the one that had hurt the worst, though that might have been the surprise. It was about the size of her entire hand.

The rest diminished in size as they ran in a vertical column up her ribs, across her armpit, up her bicep and elbow, to her wrist. The smallest was just under the thumb. That one she could cover with two fingers.

A hot shower came next, necessary before she even considered leaving this room. She thought about simply locking herself inside, but that seemed so weak, so reminiscent of who she'd once been. That girl who just let him walk all over her, who he didn't respect. She had to face the music, and do it with strength. Moping around or pretending to sleep wouldn't get her anywhere.

She had a lot of questions. And the Joker owed her some goddamn answers.

She cringed as the warm water ran over her side, staining the porcelain tub red. Some of the bits of skin where his cutting had grown jagged felt especially raw as the scabs flaked off. She started to bleed again, and didn't dare go near the wounds with regular soap. After dotting the towel with blood as she dried off, Jess smeared the wounds copiously with antibiotics and began to bind herself in the gauze she found in Jackson's medicine cabinet. She wound the bandages around her entire torso and up her arm, then eased gently into one of Jackson's clean shirts.

She stared for a long time into the mirror, her thoughts going to what had happened after he'd cut her. Had that been a dream, him holding her, sleeping beside her? It felt like it now, in the light of day. But maybe it hadn't been. Maybe he really did care, and it was deeper than simply considering her his property. She had to speak with him.

Jess left the steamy bathroom, feeling slightly better...

Only to find the Joker waiting for her by the bed, as though summoned by her thoughts.

He was toying with a pencil he'd picked up from the nightstand, turning it over between his fingers. Jess stopped in her tracks. Despite her optimistic bravery, suddenly every atom in her wanted to run away. She even thought fleetingly about jumping out the goddamn window, but resisted, standing firm. She felt her jaw clench instinctively, her hands curling into fists, her stance growing defensive and guarded.

The Joker tilted his head and let out a breathy chuckle at her.

"Morning, _sunshine_," he said. She simply stared at him, hoping her eyes weren't betraying any fear. He glanced down briefly at her body, at the bandages around her torso and arm, and raised his eyebrows. He whistled lowly. "What happened?" he asked, gesturing at the blood already spotting the bandages on her arms. After no response from Jess, he said, "Hm? What, did you... fall _down_ or something?"

"Yeah, J," she replied acidically. "I _fell down_."

"_You_," said the Joker, pointing his pencil at her, "oughta be more _careful_."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Hm." The Joker stared at her for a long time, his chin tilted down, looking mildly disgruntled. Then, tapping the pencil against his head, he began to pace towards her. "So," he said, "there's something I've been wondering."

"What is that, exactly?" Jess was startled at how hoarse her voice sounded - she supposed from all the screaming last night. He was closer now, close enough to increase her nerves.

"What I wanna know is," the Joker replied, his hands jumping towards her as he gesticulated, "why'd you run the _second_ time?" His voice was low, a contained snarl even as his mouth curled into a wide grin. The pencil jumped from his grasp and rolled under the bed.

Jess took a deep breath at the question. It took her a while to gather her thoughts, but when she decided to speak she thought she had a good answer.

"You know, you were right last night," she said, staring him in the eye. He tweaked a brow and waited for her to go on. "When you said I'm different. I've changed." The Joker tongued the scars in his cheeks and regarded her with an edge of danger, but Jess took a step towards him. Just one step. His eyes flicked to her feet for an instant before again returning to her gaze.

"You were right," she continued. "I'm not how I was before." She took another step, breathing deeply. "I've learned who I am without you. And I _won't_," another step, "be flinching every time you walk into a room. I won't be _hiding_ from you, or trying to _please_ you. I won't let you make me fear you. You can cut me all you want. You can try for control. But I'm not your _girl_ anymore."

The Joker laughed at that. What had she been expecting? His mouth closed and a high pitched chuckle gurgled through his throat.

"Ah, but you came _ba-ack_." The last word was sing-song, and he held up a long finger, gloved in black leather. Even without the jacket, he was wearing gloves.

"You wouldn't stop chasing," Jess replied. "I know you. And I wanted to say this to your face. I'm done. I quit. I don't work for you anymore." Gone were the tender feelings, the thoughts of pleasing him. The words spilled from her mouth before she'd even thought them out. But god, how good they felt, like every bitter feeling she'd had over the last six months finally had a place to go.

If she died now, she'd go out with pride, goddammit. There wasn't much more he could do to her, anyway. There wasn't much more he could put her through. Something was going to change, and it would change today.

The Joker's eyes narrowed, his smile sharpened, and he approached her swiftly, like a stalking wolf. Jess, for her part, didn't shrink from him. He drew up close to her, too close, and tilted his head to look at her.

"Again, with the _freedom_," he hissed at her, his curled hands hovering around her face. "You say... you don't want this." He gripped her chin roughly and inhaled as he pulled her close. "But I _see_ you, Jesster. I see the way you relish it. You relish _me_."

After a high pitched giggle, his tongue darted out and she watched it, watched him, felt him buzz with energy, his hands slightly shaking. An electric storm.

"Hm? The way your _eyes_... follow me around the _room_." He giggled through his lips and licked them again. "I see the way you're looking at me right _now_." He tilted his head down and gave her a dark, significant look, his voice dropping to a rasping whisper. "What do you want to do, Jesster?" He searched her eyes for second, then smiled. "_Kill_ me or _fuck_ me?"

Jess jolted at the sheer accuracy of the question. He chuckled and stepped away.

"Can't tell. Never could. I guess that's just... the _way_ things _are_." His tongue scraped along his teeth, and a sneer tugged at the corner of that capricious mouth.

"Both," Jess replied simply, figuring she owed him the truth. Surprisingly, she felt the corner of her own mouth rise into a somewhat flirtatious smirk. The Joker sent her an amused look for that. "I still don't work for you anymore."

"Ah, but you _do_, Jesster," he replied. "You have an obligation to fulfill. You _owe_ me. And, uh, I don't _forget_ debts."

"What the fuck do I owe you?" Jess shot back.

Again the Joker lunged at her, his grip transferring to the back of her neck as he dragged her body against his. He certainly wasn't hiding his desire for physical contact.

"_Your. Life_," he barked, shaking her slightly. He inhaled deeply through his nose, and when next he spoke, his voice was cracking. "You think I couldn't kill you?" No, she'd never once thought that. "That day we met - you remember that, Jesster? - I could've _blown_ your _brains out_. And after, so many times... I _wanted_ to. But no. I let you _live_. Uh, _then_, I gave you a new life. And _now_..." he grinned widely. "You owe me."

Jess chewed the inside of her cheek, unable to ignore the truth in his words, then winced at the pain in her sore face. It made her mad, but it also made her reconsider exactly what leverage she had against him. None, was the simple truth. She was stuck in a room with a man who wanted to keep her there, in a house full of men who would do whatever he told them to.

"So it's work or die," Jess said after a long moment, suddenly feeling resigned. She sighed when the Joker tilted his head, the look on his face letting her know he couldn't have said it better himself. "I have one condition." He tweaked an eyebrow, listening. "Stop treating me like a child."

"Oh, Jesster," the Joker said, tilting his head the other way and bringing his face less than an inch from hers. She stilled at the smell of him, at the feel of his breath across her skin. His eyes were fixed on her lips, his brow knitted slightly. "I never treated you like a _child_."

His tongue slid across his lower lip. And then his mouth was on hers, open and warm and wet. Jess let out a plaintive groan and tugged away half-heartedly, but his hand on the back of her neck kept her trapped against him. She moaned again as his kiss deepened, his tongue slipping into her mouth. She wasn't putting up much of a fight, she reflected.

Because, God, this felt so good. Better than kissing him last night, better than how he'd felt in her dreams. He was kissing her like he couldn't help himself. Not a symbol of power but a sign of desire. And again, that wonderful, burning thought seared through her mind: He wants me.

And she was kissing him back, passionately. All of the repressed lust and frustration, even the anger, poured into him. She fisted a hand into his blondish-green hair and brought their bodies together roughly, while his hand slipped down her back to grab her ass.

Every time she moved her left arm the injuries there screamed in pain. Every time his rough fingers dug into her hips, blood seeped its way through the bandages. But Jess didn't fucking care. The Joker was everything now, this man whose power overwhelmed her, who had come to another universe to kiss her again.

He'd taught her. He'd changed her. He was worth it. And kissing him made her sure.

"Okay," Jess rasped, ripping away from his greedy mouth. "I'll work with you." She kept eye contact for a lingering moment, his lips mere centimeters away. His breath dusted against her - he wasn't done kissing her, and seemed mildly frustrated that she had stopped. "_With_ you, J. Do you understand?"

That made the Joker's eyes narrow and a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He tilted his head, holding her face in both hands, and stared at her, fascinated and almost gentle, for a long moment.

Then, his smile broadened and his expression grew triumphant. "Yeah," he said. "I understand." He kissed her again for a long moment, inhaling deeply, then pulled back. "_I win_."

* * *

**Hope you liked it! Review please!**


End file.
